Page 48 of Run Little Omega

"The Hunt," I'd whispered, the word itself a curse in our border village.

His weathered hand had covered mine, surprisingly gentle. "There are ways to hide what you are," he'd said. "Iron dust in your soap will mask your scent. Shadowroot tea can suppress the heat cycles. It won't be easy, but—" His voice had grown fierce with sudden conviction. "I won't let them take you like they took my daughter."

That day began eleven years of deception, of existing between castes, of becoming the blacksmith's apprentice whose strength and skill made her invisible, an assumed beta in every way.

All those years of careful control, undone so simply in the Bloodmoon Forest.

I swallow the last of the herbs the Survivor gave me, knowing they’ll do nothing against the tide now rising. They might take the edge off my symptoms, but full heat has a momentum that nothing can stop. My body calls to any alpha within miles, sending out a signal that’s impossible to resist.

Still, I force myself to move. Each step is a little resistance against the current threatening to sweep me under. The forest floor shifts beneath my boots, branches stirring overhead as I pass. The ancient awareness I've sensed throughout my journey seems especially attentive now, trees turning to track my movements as if I've become something significant in their centuries-long existence.

I notice something odd about my path. Every time I try to head east, toward the haven Sera described, obstacles appear—fallen trees, sudden thickets of thorns, ground that turns unstable beneath my feet. Yet when I move northwest, the forest parts before me, paths clearing, branches lifting away from my face, roots flattening to ease my steps.

The forest is herding me. Again.

"Stop it," I mutter, fighting against the manipulation. "I choose my own way."

I deliberately turn east again, only to find my path blocked by a sudden swarm of hornets appearing from nowhere, their aggressive buzzing forcing me back to the northwestern trail. It's the same direction Cadeyrn disappeared in last night, I realize with growing unease. The forest is guiding me toward him—or toward something it wants us both to find.

The sun climbs higher, its heat compounding the fever inside me. By midday, my control has unraveled to threads. Every breeze feels like fingers trailing across my skin, drawing out sounds I can’t fully suppress. My vision blurs periodically as awareness ebbs and flows, leaving me dizzy and grasping at tree trunks that seem to curve slightly, offering better support where I clutch them.

The glamour fails more frequently now, flickering like metal cooling and reheating. Each time it falters, I catch glimpses of my true self in the corner of my eyes—copper hair darkened with sweat, falling forward into my face. My body fights to reveal itself, to announce its readiness to any alpha who might pass.

I reach a small stream and collapse beside it, plunging my hands and face into the cool water. The relief I feel is blessed, and far too fucking brief—because my heat is so strong now that even the water on my skin warms in seconds. When I look down, water dripping from my chin, I see my reflection—fully myself now, the glamour having collapsed completely the face of the magic of heat and Hunt. The illusion has failed, and I’m not enough of a spellcaster to know if it’ll return.

Another memory rises—Fergus teaching me to forge my first blade, his gruff voice instructing me to respect the metal's nature while shaping it to purpose.

"You can't force it to be something it's not," he'd explained. "The metal has its own truth. Work with that truth, not against it."

The irony cuts deep. For eleven years, I've denied my own nature, forced myself to be something other than what I am. Now the Bloodmoon Forest has stripped it all away, revealing the omega I've always been beneath suppressants and charms.

I try to stand, but another wave of heat crashes through me, driving me back to my hands and knees. The emptiness within has become an all-consuming thing, and even trying to eat is difficult when my insides are so consumed with my heat. Even damned movement is uncomfortable, my shift sticking to my thighs no matter how I try to air it out.

"Keep going," I tell myself fiercely. "One foot in front of the other. Don't stop."

But my body has other plans. I'm a beacon for every alpha within miles, moving too slowly to evade capture, too compromised to defend myself. The silver bracelet pulses against my wrist, cillae glowing with blue-white light that seems to respond to my accelerating heart rate.

A distant howl carries through the trees—an alpha on the hunt, though which one, I can't tell. My body responds instantly, internal muscles tensing with anticipation. The omega in me recognizes that sound as a promise rather than a threat, no matter what the rest of me might think or feel.

The most terrifying part isn't the approaching danger—it's how much I suddenly want to be found. It seems impossible, now, to believe that any omega has escaped being claimed during the Hunt, when it’s all my thrice-cursed body wants.

I stumble through the forest, barely able to navigate as heat intensifies. Colors blur and sharpen, scents overwhelm me, sounds are either too loud or oddly distant. The world pulses in rhythm with my racing heart.

The trees continue their silent guidance, branches blocking certain paths while clearing others. I find myself following the route of least resistance, too overwhelmed to fight the forest's manipulation any longer. Some deeper instinct tells me that resistance is futile anyway—that what's coming has been inevitable since the moment I entered the Gathering Circle wearing Willow's face.

The forest opens suddenly into a clearing I've never seen before, though it feels oddly familiar. At its center stands a massive blackthorn tree, its trunk wider than any I've ever seen, bark black as coal except for veins of red sap that seep from the cracks. The ground beneath is carpeted with silver leaves that whisper at the slightest breeze.

This place feels ancient, sacred in a way that predates human or fae history. The air is heavy with concentrated magic, raising the fine hairs on my arms. I step forward as if pulled by a force outside my control, my feet carrying me toward the ancient tree.

When I touch the blackthorn's trunk, visions flash through my mind. I see alphas and omegas engaged in elaborate ceremonial chases that end not in forced claiming but mutual coming together. These images contradict everything I've heard about the Hunt, suggesting the current practice is distorted reflection of something that was once sacred, just as the Survivor said.

The visions fade, leaving me gasping against the tree, my forehead pressed to rough bark. The contact grounds me for a moment. But the relief is brief—another wave of heat roars through me, stronger than any before. My knees buckle, and I slide down the trunk. I find myself kneeling in silver leaves that curl toward me.

I'm drowning in sensation. My entire fucking body is rebelling against my will. The emptiness inside me has become an unbearable, all-consuming need that overwhelms every other thought. My clothes feel like torture devices against hypersensitive skin. The insistent pulsing between my thighs demands attention I refuse to give it, though my hips shift unconsciously, seeking contact, seeking relief, seeking anything to ease the burning.

"Please," I whisper, though to whom or for what, I'm not entirely sure. To the forest? To the Hunt? To the Winter Prince whose ice-blue eyes haunt my fevered dreams? "Please."

The silver leaves stir around me. The blackthorn's branches shift overhead, red sap flowing more freely from its bark. The clearing itself seems to exhale, as if the forest holds its breath in anticipation of what comes next.

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