Page 41 of Run Little Omega

The sounds reach me before the scene comes into view—wet, rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh, deep grunts punctuated by high-pitched whimpers that might be pain or pleasure or some terrible combination of both. The scents hit me next—the copper tang of fresh blood, the musky secretions of alpha rut, the sweet-salt smell of an omega in forced heat.

I freeze at the edge of a small sunlit clearing, instinctively crouching behind a fallen log. My body goes rigid, my breath caught in my throat.

What I see burns itself permanently into my memory.

This is claiming—raw, primal, and brutally real. Out here in the open forest where the Hunt makes it all more brutal. Where omegas are broken and remade according to alpha desire.

The alpha dominates the clearing—a mountain of rippling muscle with skin that shimmers gold in the dappled light, marking him as Summer Court. His body has been transformed by rut, evolved for this single purpose—the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the powerful thighs flexing with each thrust, the back etched with sweat-slicked muscles that bunch and release in hypnotic rhythm. His leather breeches are pushed just low enough to free his member, the flesh an angry purple-red, swollen to a size that seems impossible for any body to accommodate.

But it's his face that terrifies me most—handsome features twisted into something barely recognizable, eyes completely black with dilated pupils, lips pulled back to reveal elongated canines dripping with saliva and blood. The flowers of Summer Court bloom across his exposed skin, bursting open and closing again with each brutal movement, feeding on the violence he creates.

Between his powerful thighs lies Flora—the same omega who lectured us all about survival strategies during our last night of freedom, the one I'd last seen at the haven with her perfect platinum hair and violet eyes. The memory of her clinical instructions about how to survive claiming flashes through my mind—the same omega who spoke so detachedly about the Hunt's mechanics is now experiencing it firsthand, her in-depth knowledge no defense against brutal reality. Her violet eyes, once sharp with calculated intelligence, now reflect practiced submission. Her platinum hair fans out around her head in a deliberate display designed to appeal to alpha desires.

"Alpha, please," she whispers, her voice trained to just the right tone—breathy with need but not desperate. "Use me as you wish." She arches her back in a practiced curve, tilting her neck to expose the scent gland at its junction with her shoulder—a textbook perfect presentation from generations of breeding for this exact moment.

The alpha snarls, clearly displeased by her calculated surrender. "Stop performing," he growls, grabbing her hips with bruising force. "I don't want your training. I want your fear."

He flips her onto her stomach with casual violence, mounting her from behind. Flora immediately adjusts, raising her hips at the proper angle to receive him, her body responding with the careful preparation of someone who's been taught exactly what to do since childhood.

"No," the alpha hisses, yanking her hair until her spine bows painfully. "Fight me."

Flora's training wars visibly with the alpha's demand. Her body trembles with the conflicting impulses—submission she's been taught will make the claiming easier versus the resistance this alpha obviously craves.

When she doesn't immediately comply, he sinks his teeth into her shoulder—not at the traditional claiming spot, but higher, where no scent gland exists to ease the pain with bonding hormones. Flora's scream is raw and genuine, the first unscripted sound I've heard from her.

"Better," the alpha purrs against the fresh wound, lapping at the blood with obvious pleasure. "Now I can feel you."

He drives into her with renewed vigor, the sounds of his thrust obscenely wet. Flora's resistance is real now, her body struggling against the type of pain that serves no purpose beyond the alpha's sadism. He responds by biting her again, this time at the back of her neck, pinning her like a predator with its prey.

Despite my horror, my body responds to the scene with shameful eagerness—warmth flooding between my thighs, inner muscles clenching around emptiness, nipples hardening to painful points against my shift. I press my hand against my mouth, fighting back sounds that might give me away.

This could be me. Will be me, if I'm discovered.

The alpha works systematically now, teeth finding new unmarked skin with each thrust—her shoulders, the sensitive skin behind her ear, the curve where neck meets her body. By the time he's established his rhythm, Flora's pale skin is a canvas of bite marks, blood seeping from a dozen wounds to stain the moss beneath them crimson.

What happens next is the most disturbing part of all. Despite the pain, despite the violation of her training, Flora's body begins to respond. I see it in the flush spreading across her skin, the way her back arches not just from pain but from unwilling pleasure. Her scent changes, sweetening with arousal that has nothing to do with conscious choice.

"There it is," the alpha growls, satisfaction evident in his voice. “This is what an omega is meant to be. Brutally fucked and filled with cum.”

Flora moans, the sound startled from her as though she's surprised by her own response. Her hips push back against him now, meeting his thrusts with genuine, unwanted need.

"Please," she gasps, violet eyes unfocused and glassy. "I can't—it's too?—"

"Too much?" the alpha laughs, the sound more animal than human. "This is exactly what you were bred for. To take whatever I give and beg for more."

At the base of his enormous shaft, I can see it forming—the knot, swelling larger with each thrust, stretching Flora's entrance beyond what seems possible. A strangled sound escapes her as he forces it inside with one final, brutal push. His entire body goes rigid, a tremor running from his shoulders to his hips as he empties himself inside her.

"Mine," he snarls, teeth finding her scent gland at last, sinking deep into the junction of neck and shoulder. Flora's back arches in an involuntary bow, a cry torn from her throat that's primal and raw.

The claiming bond forms visibly between them—a subtle shimmer in the air like heat rising from sun-baked stones. Flora's pupils dilate completely, her mouth falling open as the hormones flood her system, turning pain to pleasure and resistance to acceptance. Her hands, which had been clawing at the ground, now relax into languid surrender.

I press my thighs together, disturbed by my body's reaction. My heat-heightened senses pick up every detail—the metallic scent of blood, the musk of rut, the heavy perfume of omega arousal. My own body throbs in sympathy, craving what I've just witnessed despite my mind's revulsion.

The alpha and omega remain locked together by his knot, his massive body covering hers completely as he shifts them to their sides. This is the vulnerability of claiming—the minutes or hours where they're physically unable to separate, where the alpha's seed pumps in rhythmic pulses designed to ensure pregnancy.

"You disappointed me," he murmurs, fingers tracing the array of bite marks he's left on her skin. "All that careful preparation, those practiced movements. The breeding program has taken the wildness out of you."

"I'm sorry, Alpha," Flora whispers, her training reasserting itself even as her body remains locked to his. "I can do better."

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