Page 15 of Run Little Omega

She’s right. The fae alphas have begun their retreat, melting back into the Bloodmoon Forest with the same unnatural grace that marked their arrival. The last to depart is Prince Cadeyrn, his tall figure pausing at the boundary between clearing and wilderness. For a heartbeat, I swear his gaze finds mine again across the impossible distance—a final assessment before the Hunt begins.

Then he's gone, leaving only silver leaves trembling in his wake.

The gathered omegas release a collective breath, tension draining from rigid shoulders and clenched hands. Tonight's viewing has concluded without incident—a small mercy in a tradition that offers few. The cynic in me wonders which of us have been marked for immediate claiming, whether through beauty or submission or defiance. But I don’t voice the thought aloud, knowing we all need a precious few hours of peace before the horror begins.

"Come," announces a Spring Court emissary, her flower-petal skin luminous in the growing darkness. "A final meal awaits before tomorrow's journey begins."

The tributes move as one toward a large tent erected at the circle's edge, its canvas walls rippling in the night’s chill wind. I stay where I am for a moment longer, staring at the spot where the Winter Prince disappeared. The memory of his ice-blue eyes lingers like frost on glass—an impression that refuses to melt away.

What did he see when he looked at me? And why does it matter so damn much?

"Willow?" Flora appears at my side, her violet eyes curious. "Are you coming?"

I nod, putting on Willow's gentle smile while my mind races. Tonight offers one final chance to prepare, to strategize, to help those with the least chance of survival. The iron tokens against my thigh feel heavier with each step toward the tent, their weight a reminder of my true purpose.

Tomorrow, thirty-six omegas will enter the Bloodmoon Forest as prey. But one of us enters as something else entirely.

One of us enters as the hunter's hunter.

CHAPTER7

POV: Briar

Our last supperis served in a huge white tent at the circle's edge. Apparently providing comfort before slaughter somehow lets the butchers sleep better at night. The contrast is sickening—silk tablecloths and silver goblets for women who'll be crawling through dirt tomorrow.

Inside, long tables arranged in circles hold platters of food too rich for nervous stomachs—roasted meats dripping with honey, bread still steaming from the oven, fruits that shouldn't even be in season. The fae courts' not-so-subtle reminder of their magical abundance, of what our villages get in exchange for our bodies.

I pick at a piece of bread, its texture unnaturally perfect on my tongue. Everything here feels too pristine. Even the tent canvas is absurdly white, as if the fabric has never even touched the ground.

Around me, thirty-six omegas go through their own private rituals of goodbye. Some pray quietly, lips moving in whispers to gods who clearly stopped listening long ago. Others scratch final letters onto parchment for families they'll probably never see again. A few just stare into space, their minds already checked out to some internal hiding place beyond tomorrow's hunt.

I watch them all through Willow's borrowed face, calculating who might make it past the first day. Not many, if the stories are true. The rumors that filter back to border villages talk about mass killings within hours—alphas competing so aggressively for prime omegas that they destroy what they're fighting over.

"You're not eating."

The voice pulls me from my dark thoughts. Flora settles beside me, her platinum hair nearly identical to Willow's, though her violet eyes mark her as something special. A delicate cup of herbal tea steams between her fingers—no doubt some concoction to boost fertility or ease claiming pain.

"Neither are you," I point out, nodding at her untouched plate.

She smiles, the expression carefully designed to show a calm she can't possibly feel. "No appetite before a performance. Family tradition."

Performance. Interesting word choice for what's coming. But maybe it's accurate for Flora, whose whole existence has been crafted for this moment. She carries herself with the practiced grace of someone who's rehearsed her role since childhood—the perfect omega tribute, bred through countless generations specifically to appeal to fae preferences.

Around her, a small court has formed. Younger omegas cluster at her table, drawn by her fake composure, hoping some of her apparent calm might rub off on their trembling bodies. I watch cynically as she explains the Wild Hunt to them from a wholly different perspective than my own.

"The first day is crucial," she explains, her voice carrying the cadence of someone reciting a memorized speech. "Most deaths happen within hours of the moon rising. The best strategy is immediate shelter—caves, dense thickets, anywhere that limits approach angles."

Her audience nods desperately, hungry for any advice that might keep them alive even a few hours longer. A girl from Elmcrest—I've already forgotten her name—leans forward. "But how do you... I mean, when they catch you..." Her voice breaks.

Flora's smile never wavers. "The teeth breaking skin is the worst part," she explains, fingers touching her own neck to demonstrate. "When they bite to claim, they're already in full rut—their canines elongate and sharpen specifically for penetrating the scent gland where your neck meets your shoulder."

The clinical detail makes several younger omegas turn pale. Mira, the seventeen-year-old from Westhaven, looks ready to pass out, her skin ashy beneath her tan. But Flora keeps going, her voice eerily steady.

"The depth of the bite determines the strength of the claiming bond. A shallow bite just marks territory—painful but superficial. A deep bite that floods your bloodstream with their claiming hormones creates a stronger bond. It burns like fire spreading through your veins." Her fingers trace the path from her neck downward, an unconsciously sensual gesture that clashes with her academic tone. "Some alphas bite repeatedly—neck, wrists, inner thighs—creating multiple bond points to ensure complete submission."

"Does it... does it hurt the whole time?" asks Carrie, the village seamstress whose gray eyes have grown huge.

Flora tilts her head, considering. "The bite pain changes into something else once the claiming really begins. The hormones they release trigger your own body's response—a heat-state around the bite that spreads outward. By the time they mount you, the pain has usually transformed into a different sensation altogether."

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