Page 72 of Run Little Omega

"Keep moving," I urge as we plunge through the undergrowth. Through the claiming bond, Cadeyrn's rage resonates beneath my skin—cold fury and possessive violence promising retribution for the brothers' transgression.

"The haven," Lira manages between labored breaths, tucking her flute into her belt as she runs. "Northeast. Two miles."

My lungs burn with each breath, legs trembling from exertion, but slowing down isn't an option. The bite marks scoring Lira's neck and shoulders weep fresh blood, visceral evidence of what she endured at the brothers' hands. The way they traded her between them, tearing her from one knot to another as though she was nothing but a vessel for their pleasure...

Focus, Briar. Survival first. Horror later.

The cillae across my skin flare with warning and promise. I sense Cadeyrn engaging the brothers—winter magic colliding with autumn power like opposing storm fronts. But whatever occurs in that clearing can't concern me now. Lira's safety takes precedence.

When the haven materializes through the dense trees, I nearly fall to my knees in relief. White-barked trunks form a perfect circle around a clearing bathed in sunlight. The protective barrier shimmers faintly, like heat rising from sun-warmed metal.

I guide Lira through the shimmering threshold, ancient magic washing over us like cool water. The sensation of pressure lifting drops me to my knees, and Lira collapses beside me, her thin frame wracked with silent sobs.

“You're safe here," I tell her, knowing it's only a temporary truth. The havens shield omegas for twelve hours at most—just enough to recover from claiming before the Hunt continues.

Inside the protected circle, several omegas have gathered. Flora stands out immediately, her platinum hair loose around her shoulders as she methodically sorts herbs. Her violet eyes lift at our arrival, widening at Lira's injuries.

"The Raveling Brothers," she states. Not a question.

I nod, helping Lira to a soft patch of moss near the small fire. "They were trading her between them. Passing her back and forth like she was..." My voice catches as the horror of what I witnessed crashes through me.

"I know their methods," Flora says quietly, reaching for a clay pot of salve. “I’ve already endured it twice. The synchronized claiming." Her hands remain gentle as she tends to Lira's wounds. “That face you’re wearing is new, though you have the same scent and bear the Winter Prince’s mark. Your name isn’t Willow, is it?”

“It’s Briar,” I admit guiltily, hating that I’ve deceived them. “I used a glamour spell to change my appearance so I could take her place.”

Flora simply says, “Fool,” and I can’t disagree with her.

Around the clearing, other omegas watch us with varied expressions—sympathy, resignation, and that terrible relief born from knowing someone else suffered worse than you did. I recognize several faces: Nessa, the farm girl, now with claiming marks visible above her collar; Ivy, who sits with knees drawn to her chest, gaze vacant; Wren, the middle-aged midwife, whose experience shows in her resigned expression.

And at the group's edge, nearly hidden in shadow, is Mira—the seventeen-year-old who seemed too fragile to survive even the first day. But here she is, alive at least.

"More have arrived since I was last here," I observe, sinking onto a flat stone. The weight of our collective suffering settles around my shoulders like a mantle too heavy to bear.

Flora's hands pause. "And more have been lost." Her violet eyes hold a new sorrow as she looks up. "Rose disappeared—the Collector took her. And Marrow was culled when her Winter Court alpha discovered she was too old to bear viable offspring."

I nod grimly. The brutal mathematics of the Hunt are unavoidable—each day reducing our numbers, separating "valuable" breeding stock from those judged expendable.

Across the clearing, two omegas lie curled on their sides, faces contorted as blood seeps through makeshift cloths pressed between their thighs. The miscarriages—another harsh reality of the Hunt's biology. They'd been claimed by lesser alphas, then reclaimed by stronger ones whose seed triggered a rejection of the first embryos.

I think of Cadeyrn, his possessive rage at the thought of another alpha touching me, and wonder if it's not just territoriality but biology. He ensures no lesser alpha's offspring can take root where he's planted his claim.

As daylight wanes, more omegas seek the shelter of a haven—all claimed, all carrying at least one alpha's seed, many bearing wounds that go far further than claiming bites. Wren and Flora work tirelessly, applying healing salves and offering comfort where they can.

Marta arrives just before sunset, her hair matted with blood that isn't her own. "The Winter Prince fights Lord Ember Farren," she announces, dropping beside the fire. "Formal combat this time, not an ambush like the others."

My attention snaps to her words. "Where?"

"The ridge overlooking the black valley," she replies, accepting water from Wren. "Territorial dispute. Ember accused him of violating Hunt protocols with his exclusive claim."

The claiming bond flares suddenly, cillae glowing through my torn clothing. I sense a shift in Cadeyrn's emotional state—burning rage cooling into something more calculated. Whatever happened with the Raveling Brothers is over, and he's moved to a new confrontation, just as she said.

"I need to go," I say, rising.

Flora looks up sharply. "The haven's protection lasts twelve hours. You still have time."

"He’s out there fighting because of me," I reply, gathering my meager supplies. "I need to understand what's happening."

No one tries to stop me. They understand, perhaps better than I do, the claiming bond's pull—how separation becomes physically painful. Even those who despise their captors eventually seek them out, drawn by biology more powerful than pride or self-preservation.

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