Page 32 of Run Little Omega

I tuck the vial into my innermost pocket, against my frantically beating heart. "Thank you."

A shadow passes over her face. "Don't thank me yet. The Hunt becomes more dangerous with each passing day. Alphas grow more desperate, their ruts intensify, the forest itself responds to the building magic."

Another wave of heat hits me, this one strong enough to make me gasp. Vivid images flood my mind—being held down, claimed, filled. My body clenches around emptiness, desperate for relief I refuse to acknowledge wanting. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, using the pain to ground myself in the present.

"Gods," I whisper, mortified by my body's response.

"It will get worse before it gets better," the Survivor says with the calm certainty of experience. "The herbs help, but only temporarily. Eventually you'll need to make difficult choices."

"I don't plan to be claimed at all," I insist, though my body screams otherwise.

Her lips curve in a knowing smile. "Plans have a way of changing during the Hunt."

She stands, signaling our conversation has reached its end. "Rest here until dawn. The forest grows more dangerous by the hour, and night travel is suicide this deep into the Hunt."

I want to protest, to continue asking the dozens of questions swirling in my mind, but exhaustion suddenly washes over me. Whether from the tea or the release of tension after days of hypervigilance, my body demands rest.

The Survivor gestures to a small pallet in the corner. "Sleep. I'll wake you when it's safe to continue."

Dreams come in waves of heat and need. I'm running through endless forest, pursued by something I can't see but desperately want to. My body burns from within, skin hypersensitive to every brush of the forest’s leaves against me. The silver bracelet pulses on my skin, cillae spreading towards my shoulders like delicate lace.

In the dream, I stop running. Turn. Wait.

A figure emerges from shadow, tall and powerful and beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Ice-blue eyes meet mine, hungry and possessive. Prince Cadeyrn approaches slowly, each step deliberate, giving me time to run if I choose.

I don't. Can't. Won't.

His hand, when it touches my face, is surprisingly warm. "Little deceiver," he whispers, voice like velvet over stone. "Stop running from what you want."

I wake with a gasp, body trembling on the edge of an orgasm that never comes. Dampness coats my thighs, and every nerve ending screams for touch, for completion, for something to fill the aching emptiness within. I curl into myself, mortified by my body's betrayal and the lingering desire for a fae alpha I shouldn't want.

Sunrise paints the cottage in shades of blood and gold. The Survivor moves silently around the small space, packing items into a worn leather pouch.

"You dreamed," she observes without looking at me. Not a question.

"Yes." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough with need and embarrassment.

"It happens during heat. The body speaks when the mind sleeps." She hands me the pouch. "Herbs, bandages, firestarter. A few meals of bread and cheese. Basics for survival."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it deeply despite my lingering wariness. "For everything."

She nods once, then moves toward the door. "The Hunt changes after the first week. Be vigilant."

I follow her outside, where early morning sunlight casts golden beams between the trees. My body has cooled somewhat after the dream, leaving me functional if still uncomfortably aware of every sensation. She points to a faint path barely visible in the misty morning glow.

"Follow that until you reach an oak tree struck by lightning. North from there to the caves." Her weathered hand touches my arm briefly. "Trust your instincts, even when they frighten you. They've kept our kind alive through generations of Hunts."

With those words, she turns back toward her cottage. The structure seems to absorb her as she passes through its doorway, tree and dwelling becoming one continuous entity in the gathering darkness.

I face the path she indicated, squaring my shoulders against the weight of biology and circumstance. The vial of shifting silver-blue liquid rests against my heart, tucked safely inside my innermost pocket. The map showing secret ways through the forest is secured in my boot.

Knowledge is its own form of power, even against beings as ancient and magical as the fae. I may be hunted, but I am not helpless.

The forest whispers around me as I take the first steps on my northern path, silver leaves rustling conversations just beyond human understanding. Overhead, the crimson moon is now visible even in the morning sky, bathing the world in light the color of fresh blood.

Seven days down. Fourteen more to survive.

Though judging by the way my body responds to even the thought of ice-blue eyes and winter frost, survival might not be my only concern anymore.

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