Page 36 of Run Little Omega

Near midday, a flash of white through the trees catches my attention—movement too rapid and erratic to be animal. I drop instantly into a crouch, hiding behind a broad trunk as I scan the underbrush.

The flash appears again, accompanied this time by the sound of panicked breathing. Someone is crashing through the forest with no attempt at stealth, driven by blind fear.

An omega. From the glimpse of dark curls, I recognize her immediately—Mira, the youngest tribute at seventeen. I'd met her at the Gathering Circle and again during our last night of freedom in the tent. She was just a child, really, flower petals woven into her hair by siblings too young to understand what the ceremony meant.

"Mira!" I call out, keeping my voice low but clear enough to carry.

She staggers to a halt, whirling toward my voice with terror in her eyes. Recognition dawns slowly, her panic receding slightly as she spots me through the trees.

"Willow?" she gasps, using the name I've been wearing since the Hunt began.

I emerge from my hiding place, hands raised to show I'm no threat, though we both know the real threats in this forest are male and fae. My scent—heightened by exertion—makes her eyes widen as she approaches. She must smell my heat; omega senses sharpen dramatically during the Hunt.

"You're in heat," she says, keeping a cautious distance. Smart girl.

"Managing it," I reply with a grimace. "What happened? Why are you running so carelessly?"

Her white tribute dress hangs in tatters from her thin frame. Scratches mark her arms and face where branches have whipped against her skin during her headlong flight.

"The Huntsman," she whispers, the name alone enough to renew her trembling. "He almost caught me. He was so close I could smell him. Like flowers, but wrong somehow. Sweet but... rotting."

I know of The Huntsman from stories and from conversations at the haven—a Spring Court alpha who lures omegas with false gentleness before revealing his true brutality. That he's hunting in this part of the forest, so close to Winter territory, speaks to his boldness—or desperation.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, scanning her for serious injuries.

She shakes her head. "Just scared. So scared. I've been running for hours."

"You can't keep crashing through the forest like that. You're leaving a trail a blind alpha could follow." I glance around, assessing our surroundings. My plan to lead as many omegas as possible to safety feels suddenly more urgent with Mira's terrified face before me. "We need to hide you, now. Then figure out how to get you to a haven."

The nearest haven, according to the Survivor’s map, lies southeast, perhaps three hours' journey at a careful pace. It's marked by stones arranged in a circle—I'd memorized all the haven markers so I don’t even have to take the map out to find them.

A hollow log lies nearby, partially concealed by ferns and large enough to shelter her small frame. I guide her toward it, helping her crawl inside. Being this close to another person, even another omega, makes my skin hypersensitive, fever-hot.

"Stay absolutely still," I instruct, covering the entrance with fallen branches and leaves. "I'm going to create a false trail leading away from here."

She grabs my hand, eyes huge with fear. "Don't leave me," she pleads.

"I'll be right back," I promise, gently extracting myself from her grip. "Count to one hundred. Slowly."

I move quickly, creating an obvious trail heading east—broken branches, disturbed leaf litter, even a scrap torn from my own sleeve caught on a thorn bush. The deception complete, I return to find Mira counting in a whisper, her voice trembling on "seventy-eight, seventy-nine..."

"Good job," I say, crouching to peer into her hiding place. "Now we wait until we're sure it's safe, then we'll move toward the haven."

We fall silent, listening to the forest around us. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, my muscles cramping from staying in the same position for so long. My heat symptoms make staying still a special kind of torture—my body alternately flushing hot and then shivering, the need to move, to seek relief becoming almost overwhelming.

Mira's breathing has steadied, though her eyes remain wide and watchful through the gaps in the branches covering her sanctuary. She watches me with growing concern as I shift uncomfortably, trying to ease the constant ache that pulses through my core.

"Your heat looks bad," she whispers. "Worse than the others I've seen."

"First time," I reply through gritted teeth. "Been suppressing it for years."

Her eyes widen further. "Years? How?—"

I shake my head, unwilling to explain about Fergus's help, the iron tokens, the herbs. That would reveal too much about my true identity.

I'm just beginning to think we might be safe when the air changes, carrying a new scent—musk and amber and something metallic that raises the hair on my arms. An alpha. Close.

Not The Huntsman with his sickly-sweet aroma, but someone equally dangerous. I breathe shallowly through my mouth, trying to identify the threat without taking in too much of the scent. Recognition hits me like a physical blow.

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