Page 35 of Run Little Omega

Prince Cadeyrn hasn't touched me physically, yet his magic spreads through me with every hour that passes. The silver bracelet pulses in time with distant howls, its original purpose now expanded to something more intimate, more invasive.

I don't understand the how or why of this long-distance claiming, but its reality becomes harder to deny with each passing hour. The Survivor didn't seem surprised by it, which suggests this isn't entirely unprecedented—rare, perhaps, but known to those who understand the Hunt's deeper magic.

The forest stirs around me as I walk, responding to my passage with subtle movements that could be threat or protection—I'm not certain which. The crimson moonlight intensifies overhead, reaching its zenith for this night. In its bloodred glow, the cillae on my arm pulse with answering blue light, the colors merging where they meet to create deep violet hues that spread and fade with each throb of my pulse.

I continue northward, one foot before the other, refusing to surrender to the demands of heat and hunt and ancient magic. My body may respond to these forces, but my mind—my will—remains my own.

For now, at least, that has to be enough.

CHAPTER14

POV: Briar

Dawn breaksthrough the forest canopy in fractured beams, turning the mist into veils of gold that would be beautiful if they weren't illuminating a nightmare.

I stand frozen at the forest's edge, unable to look away from the grotesque display before me. Lord Klairs Thorn—the name whispered with fear by omegas at the haven—hangs suspended from branches woven together like a macabre cradle. His bronzed Summer Court skin has dulled to the color of tarnished metal, magic seeping away in death. His throat has been torn out with such violence that his head is barely attached, held only by a few strands of spine and sinew.

This is no quick kill. The arrangement is deliberate, artful in its savagery. The alpha's body has been positioned to create a territorial boundary marker, his arms extended outward like a gruesome signpost. His own blood—still glistening wet in the morning light—has been used to paint warning symbols on surrounding trees. Symbols I can't read but whose meaning is unmistakable: Mine. My territory. My prey. Trespass and die.

I press a hand over my mouth, fighting a wave of nausea. The smell is overwhelming—death and magic and something else, something cold and sharp like winter wind. The stench of violent death cuts through everything.

"Cadeyrn," I whisper, and even saying his name aloud sends an unwelcome shiver through my overheated body.

The Winter Prince has escalated his hunt. The first dead alpha I found was a message. This is a declaration of war.

I study the scene from a safe distance, noting details I wish I could ignore. Despite the brutality of the killing, there's a terrible precision to it. The branches don't just hold the body; they've been deliberately woven through flesh, the pattern complex and intentional. The blood symbols follow a progression around the clearing, each one building on the last to create a complete message. This isn't mindless rage. It's calculated intimidation, the work of a mind both ancient and coldly rational even in the grip of rut.

My stomach turns again, but something darker and more primal stirs beneath the horror—a shameful flicker of satisfaction that this Summer Court alpha, notorious for his cruelty to claimed omegas, has met such an end. That someone considered me—or at least the omega he believes me to be—worth such a violent defense.

What kind of person does that make me? What kind of monster am I becoming in this forest?

I back away from the clearing, unwilling to linger near such deliberate carnage. My heat symptoms flare again as I move, a persistent ache low in my belly and sweat breaking out across my skin despite the morning chill. The crimson moon may have set, the sky bright enough to chase its light away, but its influence remains, simmering within me, waiting for night to fall once more.

The path I'd planned to take leads directly through what is now clearly marked as the Winter Prince's exclusive territory. I need a new route, perhaps circling east toward the havens.

Only when I try to move in that direction, the forest itself seems to resist me. Thickets that appeared passable suddenly reveal themselves to be impenetrable walls of thorn. Vines snake across the ground, tangling around my ankles when I try to push through. Even the ground betrays me, turning soft and unstable under my feet, nearly swallowing my boots with each step.

"Fine," I mutter, turning north instead. “Have it your way.”

Here, the forest opens before me like a welcoming embrace. Branches lift away from my path. Undergrowth parts to reveal clear passages. Even the morning mist thins, allowing me to see farther ahead.

The realization sends ice through my veins: the forest is herding me. Like a shepherd guiding a lost sheep, or—more accurately—like a hunter driving prey toward a trap.

I stop, heart hammering against my ribs. "I see what you're doing," I say aloud to the trees. "I'm not going that way."

I try to turn east again, only to find my path blocked by a fallen tree that I could swear wasn't there moments ago. When I attempt to climb over it, the bark crumbles beneath my hands, sending me sprawling backward onto the forest floor.

Breathing hard, I try west instead. Three steps in that direction and a swarm of insects rises from nowhere, their aggressive buzzing forcing me back to the northward path.

"Dammit!" I snarl, kicking at a nearby trunk in frustration. The tree shivers in response, sending a shower of dew down upon my head. If trees could laugh, I'd swear this one was mocking me.

The forest wants me to go north. Toward Winter Court territories. Toward Cadeyrn.

Is the forest allied with him somehow? Is that why it's been helping me evade other alphas while simultaneously guiding me toward him? The thought is so absurd I almost laugh, but after days in the Bloodmoon Forest, I've learned not to dismiss even the strangest possibilities.

With little choice, I follow the path of least resistance, moving northward while looking for any opportunity to veer from my forest-imposed course. The terrain rises gradually, the blackthorn trees giving way to taller, older growth with pale bark that flakes away like curls of parchment. The air carries a hint of coolness that offers momentary relief to my fevered skin.

I walk for hours, conserving water and the last of The Survivor's herbs. My symptoms have settled into a constant, manageable burn—uncomfortable but not incapacitating. The silver bracelet continues to tingle against my wrist, the cillae now completely covering my left arm from fingertips to shoulder. Whatever magic the Winter Prince worked through it, it's spreading with every passing hour.

---