Page 56 of Run Little Omega

He does, surprisingly. As I finally stand, I wince at the various aches radiating through my body. My legs wobble beneath me. The evidence of our mating marks my thighs, a visceral reminder of the seed he's planted deep inside me.

The glamour spell has completely failed, leaving my copper hair spilling loose around my shoulders in wild tangles full of sticks and leaves from sleeping on the forest floor. After nearly two weeks of living as Willow, my true self feels foreign—stronger limbs, broader shoulders, skin flushed with vitality rather than pallor. I find myself touching my face, reacquainting myself with the dips and curves of my lips and cheekbones.

I find the remains of my clothing scattered across the clearing but don't bother with the thin white shift. It's been torn beyond salvaging, and besides, there seems little point in modesty after what we've shared.

"I should go," I say, eyes fixed on the tree line instead of on his naked body, still magnificent of course, damn him. "The Hunt tradition says claimed omegas get a head start."

His movements are impossibly fast. One moment he's lounging against the tree, the next he stands blocking my path, fully naked and unashamed, his cock a testament to alpha virility even in a more softened state. The memory of his body joined with mine sends an unwanted pulse of heat through my core.

"Hunt's not over," he says, voice rough with lingering rut. "Eight more days."

"You've already claimed me," I counter, gesturing to the bite mark at my neck that still throbs with each heartbeat. "I'm supposed to run, and you're supposed to go after other omegas."

His laugh is dark, almost cruel. "Fuck that. There are no other omegas for me."

I edge sideways, testing his boundaries. His eyes never leave mine, tracking my movements with predatory focus. "That's not how the Hunt works. One alpha takes multiple omegas. Multiple alphas take the same omega. That's the whole tradition."

"Those rules?" He steps closer, looming over me. "Made by courts that are dying out."

His scent—winter wind and metal, overlaid now with the musk of our mating—triggers an instant, unwanted response in my body. Warmth blooms between my thighs, my body betraying me as it has since the crimson moon rose.

Cadeyrn notices, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. He drops to one knee before me, one hand sliding up my thigh to the wetness there, the warmths of his breath ghosting my skin. His fingers brush through the mixture of his seed and my arousal, and he looks up at me with primal satisfaction.

"Still open for me," he growls, bringing those fingers to his mouth and tasting our combined essence. "As you should be."

Before I can step back, he rises and presses his mouth to mine in a bruising kiss that steals my breath. He tastes of us—of salt and sweetness and something wild.

"Those other alphas?" he murmurs against my lips. "They'd take you after me, knot you, fill you—and their rut would destroy my seed inside you. That's how it's 'supposed' to work. Their magic kills previous embryos so only the strongest takes hold."

His fingers trace along my collarbone, deliberately possessive. "Not happening. Not with you."

Cold fire follows his touch, cillae spreading across my skin in delicate whorls that match those covering his body. The magic sinks beneath the surface, becoming part of me rather than mere decoration.

"What are you doing?" I ask, though I already know. He's marking me beyond the bite—a visual warning to any alpha who might catch my scent.

"Making sure everyone knows you're mine," he says with savage intensity. His teeth find my neck again, just beside the original claiming mark, and bite down hard.

I gasp as fresh heat floods through me, my knees buckling as bonding hormones surge through my bloodstream. The bond between us flares, briefly merging our sensations—I feel his pleasure at claiming me again, his satisfaction at my response.

"I'll be the only one," he promises as he licks the new wound. "Tonight, tomorrow, for as long as you're in heat. No other alpha touches what's mine."

The dual marking—magic and fresh bite—triggers another wave of heat, stronger than I expected. My knees give way completely, and I would have fallen if not for his arms catching me. My body responds eagerly to his continued claiming.

"You can't just—" I struggle to form coherent thoughts while my biology drowns me in sensation. "The other alphas won't accept this."

"They'll learn." His canines are still elongated from rut, freshly stained with my blood. When he smiles, it's all predator. "Or they'll die."

The casual certainty with which he threatens murder should terrify me. Instead, some primal part of me—the omega I've denied for eleven years—responds with a thrill of dark satisfaction. To have an alpha so powerful, so determined to claim me exclusively...

I hate that part of myself. The blacksmith who survived through independence, who protected herself through strength and cleverness, recoils from this primitive response.

"I need to go," I insist, pulling away from his hold. "You've had me. Now I run."

His expression hardens, something vicious flickering behind eyes still dark with possession. He steps back, but only to wave his hand in a complicated gesture. Ice crystals form in the air before him, spinning and weaving together until they create a shimmering fabric that falls into his waiting palm.

"What is that?" I ask warily.

"Cover yourself," he commands, thrusting the ice-woven cloth at me. It feels like silk against my skin, impossibly light and fluid for something created from winter magic.

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