Page 50 of Run Little Omega

His scent hits like a physical blow—winter wind and cold-forged steel with something so potently, aggressively male that my core responds with an involuntary clench. Fresh dampness gathers between my thighs, my body's instant, eager betrayal, reacting like metal melting under perfect heat.

He wears only a makeshift loincloth of animal hide that does absolutely nothing to hide his state. His arousal strains against the thin material, the outline obscenely visible—longer and thicker than seems possible, the head pushing well above the waistband against his stomach. Even from here, I can see it pulse with each beat of his heart, a living thing with its own desperate hunger. At the base, a subtle thickness hints at what will come—the knot that will lock us together, not yet fully formed but promising its eventual emergence.

"Found you," he growls, voice so ravaged by rut it barely sounds human. His chest heaves with each breath, muscles twitching with barely contained violence, frost forming and melting around his clenched fists.

I swallow hard, forcing defiance I don't entirely feel. "Congrats. Want a prize?"

His laugh is more snarl than amusement. "Oh, I'll be taking my prize." He stalks forward with deliberate steps, frost spreading from his bare feet only to melt instantly into the forest floor. "But don't worry, little deceiver. You'll get yours too."

He circles me like the predator he is, and I turn to keep him in sight, refusing to show my back despite the omega instincts screaming at me to submit, to present, to be taken. To melt beneath his touch like ore in a furnace.

"I see you," he says, nostrils flaring as he scents me through the failing glamour. "Not the illusion you've been hiding behind. Your true self, the self that’s finally at the forefront.”

Ice slides through my veins despite the heat, cold fear alongside burning need—the dangerous contrast that can shatter heated metal.

"Your copper hair," he continues, moving closer with each word. "Your amber eyes that dare to challenge when you should submit. Those arms strong enough to fight me."

"Noticed a lot about me, have you?" I snap, retreating until my back hits the massive blackthorn. More sap oozes at the contact, the bark hot against my shoulders like a forge wall.

His smile is all teeth, sharp canines elongated with rut. "I've noticed everything about you since the moment you walked into that circle wearing another's face."

"Then you know I'm not like the others," I say, chin lifting despite the tremors wracking my body. "I'm not some pampered breeding omega who'll roll over and beg. I've been hammering metal into submission since I was a child. You think I'm afraid of heat?"

"Good." The word drips with dark promise. "I've killed nine alphas to ensure no one else touches what's mine. The least you can do is make the claiming interesting."

Nine! I knew about the ones I'd found, but nine? The casual mention of his kills sends a conflicted thrill through me—horror at the brutality, alongside a shameful pulse of satisfaction that he fought so hard to claim me. Like learning a master smith destroyed his competitors' work to preserve his claim on a masterpiece.

Another wave of heat crashes through me, stronger than before, doubling me over with its force. My knees buckle, and I slide down the trunk, bark scraping my back through my thin shift like a rasp across metal.

"Fuck," I gasp, sweat soaking through my clothes as fever spikes.

Cadeyrn is on me in an instant, dropping to a predatory crouch. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, scenting my heat, my arousal, my fear—reading me like a smith reads metal by its color and scent.

"You've been fighting it too long," he says, close enough now that his breath stirs the hair at my temple. "Too many years suppressing what you are. And now you pay the price."

His hand shoots out, wrapping around my throat in a grip that's firm but not crushing. My pulse hammers against his palm, my airway clear but a silent threat established.

"Do you know what you've done to me?" he demands, rage edging his voice. "Seven centuries of control. Seven centuries without a single rut. Then you appear, and it all burns away like it was nothing.”

His other hand tangles in my hair, still platinum blonde from the glamour spell, and the magic melts against his palm, copper strands breaking through the illusion.

“I should despise you for it," he continues, his jaw clenched. "My court position, my immortality, my reputation—all compromised because I can't get your fucking scent out of my head."

The crude word sounds strange from those lips, evidence of how far he's crumbled from princely perfection.

"Not my problem," I gasp out, arching against his hold despite myself. "No one asked you to hunt me."

"As if I had a choice!" His grip tightens momentarily before he catches himself. "They told me rut would age me, weaken me. They lied." A feral smile spreads across his face. "I can't think straight, can barely form words, and yet I've never felt this powerful."

The iron token burns against my palm as I grip it tighter. Without warning, I lunge forward, driving it straight at his chest. He reacts with inhuman speed, catching my wrist in a bruising grip just before the iron makes contact. His skin sizzles where it nears the token, and he snarls in pain and fury.

"You little savage," he growls, something like admiration flashing in his eyes.

I twist violently, my other hand whipping around with the makeshift knife. The rusted blade scrapes his shoulder before he catches that wrist too, blood beading along the shallow cut. For a moment, surprise crosses his features—not at the wound, which is negligible, but at my audacity.

"Still fighting," he says, something like respect coloring his voice. "Good."

In a single, brutal movement, he slams both my wrists above my head, pinning them against the tree with one massive hand. The knife clatters uselessly to the ground. He pries the iron token from my fingers with his free hand, examining it briefly before flinging it far into the undergrowth.

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