Page 58 of Run Little Omega

"Gods, that's better," I sigh, submerging completely to wet my tangled copper hair.

When I surface, wiping water from my eyes, I'm no longer alone.

Lord Varen Halvesbain stands on the opposite bank, watching me with detached interest, like he has all the time in the world. His white-blonde hair falls to his waist in elaborate court braids, not a strand disturbed despite weeks in the forest. His face would be beautiful if it weren't for the predatory, calculated expression on his face.

But it's his eyes that freeze me in place—so pale blue they're nearly colorless, completely without emotion. Compared to Cadeyrn, who lights up with fury and frustration, with charm and arousal, Halvesbain is an ice crystal in a blizzard.

And the coldness of his gaze makes my pulse race like I'm a rabbit startled from the underbrush by a dozen hunting hounds.

"Remain still," he commands, his voice flat and clinical. "Cillae. I've read of them, but never seen them. They present a... unique opportunity for discovery."

I sink lower in the water, arms crossing instinctively over my breasts. My knife lies with my discarded clothing, impossibly far away on the bank. "Get away from me," I growl, trying to mask my terror with aggression. "You won't bediscoveringanything."

He dismisses me completely, stepping closer to the water's edge. As he approaches, I notice with mounting dread that he's already aroused, his loose trousers doing little to conceal his growing interest.

"Fascinating," he murmurs, those empty eyes fixed on the cillae spiraling across my left side from collarbone to hip. "Cillae like that have been almost unheard of for centuries. And the way they carry his scent... how they pulse and move... quite extraordinary."

His cold words feel more violating than raw lust would. I edge toward the bank where my knife waits, but he raises a hand almost lazily, and the water around me begins to freeze. Delicate ice ferns spread across the surface, forming a cage that traps me in the deepest part of the stream.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," he says, expression unchanged despite the casual display of power. "I've spent half my lifespan documenting the biological implications of claiming and I've never seen cillae like that before. This is a rare opportunity for me to study more."

"I'm claimed," I remind him, voice tight with fury and fear. "That's the entire fucking point of these marks."

Lord Varen tilts his head, eyes narrowed. "Indeed. Which raises so many questions." His hand drops to the growing bulge in his trousers, touching himself with dispassionate curiosity. "Such as, would a secondary alpha be able to override the claim? Or would the cillae move from the omega to the alpha? Either way... I wish to know."

My stomach plummets. "You're not testing your theories on me."

"I don't believe you have much choice in the matter." He steps into the stream, pulling his loose trousers down to expose the hardening cock beneath. "And you, little omega, are simply too unique to pass by."

The ice continues spreading as he wades toward me, trapping me in an ever-shrinking circle. I push against it but earn nothing but sliced palms and cold skin. My fear spikes further as I realize this is real, that I'm really going to be claimed by this monster.

Panic claws up my throat as he reaches me, one cold hand gripping my jaw to immobilize me while the other continues to stroke his length. His fingers dig into my skin, forcing my face up while those empty eyes examine the claiming bite on my neck.

"The Prince's techniques are surprisingly sloppy," he observes, thumb pressing painfully against the puncture wounds. "He's been... careless with you. And the way you smell... it's changed, but I recognize that scent beneath his markers. You're Willow from Thornwick, aren't you?" My expression must give me away. "And yet you look nothing like you did at the start of the Hunt, which can only mean one thing: magic. I'll find out more once I'm inside your body and your mind."

He strokes his cock harder, faster. It's massive like Cadeyrn's rut-swollen length, but somehow more unnerving, the tip dripping precum and the shaft bulging with blue veins.

"I believe that Winter Court magic may overwrite Winter Court magic," he informs me, tone unchanged as if discussing weather patterns. "The response of your cillae will tell me more."

"I'll fucking gut you," I promise, fighting against his grip with renewed desperation.

"I'd like to see you try," he replies, unmoved as he positions himself between my forcibly spread thighs. The water has gone completely still around us, frozen into an unnatural basin that holds us suspended. "No omega has ever resisted my claim and kept her life. Though I'd be sorely disappointed to see such an opportunity be wasted, I'm sure another similar one will arise... in a century or two."

I feel him press against me, cold and clinical, and something inside me fractures. Not surrender but its opposite—a wild, desperate fury that burns through every rational thought. I slam my forehead directly into his face, feeling cartilage give way beneath the impact.

Lord Varen doesn't cry out—he merely blinks, a single drop of silver-blue blood tracing a path down his flawless face. His expression shifts slightly towards frustrated annoyance.

"You'll only wind up dead," he reprimands, fingers digging bruises into my jaw as his other hand grips my hip, positioning me more firmly. "There's no way for you to kill me with your weak human strength. Not even if youwereable to reach that knife."

I'm still struggling, fighting with every ounce of strength I possess, when the temperature plummets so drastically that the air crystallizes around us. My breath emerges as white vapor, each water droplet on my skin freezing instantly. Lord Varen goes still, his colorless eyes widening in what might be the first genuine emotion I've witnessed—recognition.

"You're interrupting another alpha's claim, my prince," he states without turning, though his grip on me doesn't loosen.

"I'm interrupting my own execution," comes Cadeyrn's voice, transformed by rage into a deep and predatory snarl.

I look past Lord Varen's shoulder to see wrath incarnate emerging from the treeline. The Winter Prince looks like destruction itself—his eyes swallowed entirely by black pupils, killing frost radiating from his bare feet to consume everything in his path. Trees shatter as he passes by, sap freezing within their trunks, and small creatures flee in panicked waves before him.

It’s infuriatingly fucking hot.

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