Page 164 of Run Little Omega

"Do you know what I see when I look at you, Briar?" he asks, voice pitched low and intimate in the darkness.

"A village blacksmith who's in way over her head?" I suggest with a wry smile, deflecting as I always do when conversations veer toward uncomfortable sincerity.

He doesn't return the smile. Instead, his expression carries weight I've rarely seen, even during our most intimate moments. "I see someone who entered the most dangerous ritual in our shared history wearing another's face, determined to save her friend." His fingers trace the cillae along my collarbone. "Someone who survived claiming and transformation and betrayal. Someone who has already changed the foundations of a magical system that has stood for millennia." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing over my newly pointed ear with surprising gentleness. "If anyone can defy the impossible, it's you."

The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath more effectively than any claiming bite. Seven centuries of perfect Winter Court control, and he looks at me like I'm something miraculous rather than a vessel to be filled.

"I need you to promise me something," I say, choosing my words carefully, hands moving to cradle my swollen belly where our children grow. "If it comes down to a choice between saving me or the children?—"

"Don't," he interrupts, cillae darkening to nearly black. "I won't make that promise."

"You have to," I insist, placing my palm against his chest where his heart beats with surprising strength. "Four lives that represent everything the courts have feared and suppressed for centuries. The future of Wild Magic itself. They matter more than either of us."

"They need their mother," he counters, jaw clenched with stubborn determination that reminds me of metal resisting the forge.

"And their father," I agree, "but if forced to choose?—"

"We will find another way," he says with such absolute conviction that I almost believe him. "There is always another path for those willing to shatter expectations."

I want to argue further, to make him understand the practical necessities of worst-case scenarios, but instead I find myself surging forward to capture his mouth with mine. Something primal drives the kiss—not the biological imperative of heat but something deeper, more deliberate. A claiming of my own making.

His response is immediate and visceral, mouth claiming mine with a hunger that belies his centuries of perfect control. The kiss tastes of winter frost and something wilder—primal magic that bypasses rational thought and connects directly to instinct. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness, heat flaring beneath frost-patterned skin.

"Careful," he murmurs against my lips, one hand moving to support my lower back. "Lysandra advised against strenuous activity."

I laugh, the sound half-frustrated desire, half-genuine amusement. "Pretty sure she meant 'don't fight enemy warriors,' not 'don't touch your mate.'"

Mate. The word slips out without conscious thought, more accurate than 'alpha' or 'prince' or any other title that once defined our relationship. Whatever we've become transcends the simple dynamics of claimed and claimer. The Wild Magic transformed us both, creating something unprecedented from what began as traditional Hunt protocol.

Cadeyrn's expression softens at the term, recognition flaring in his gaze. "Even so, your condition requires... accommodation."

Before I can protest further, he shifts his position, moving down my body with deliberate intent. The bed beneath us—a recent concession to my comfort over traditional court sleeping platforms—dips slightly as he settles between my legs, his shoulders nudging my thighs apart with careful reverence.

"Oh," I breathe as his purpose becomes clear, a flush spreading across my chest that has nothing to do with pregnancy heat. "That kind of accommodation."

His laugh ghosts warm across my inner thigh, the sensation igniting nerve endings with unexpected intensity. "The Winter Court excels at adaptation when properly motivated."

Any clever retort dies in my throat as his mouth finds my pussy with practiced precision. Three months of claiming have taught him exactly how to unravel me with strategic application of tongue and subtle frost magic. The coolness of his mouth against my heat creates a contrast that sends lightning through my core, my back arching as much as my swollen belly allows.

"Gods, yes," I gasp, the feel of his tongue against my sensitive flesh sending sparks of pleasure through my transformed body. "Right there."

I surrender to the sensation, hands fisting in his midnight-black hair as pleasure builds with shocking speed. My transformed body responds with heightened sensitivity, cillae flaring brighter with each expert stroke. The little ones have mercifully settled, as if understanding their mother's need for this connection before the chaos tomorrow will bring.

The pressure builds faster, tighter than I remember—another unexpected gift of my transformation, this new body with its heightened senses and magically enhanced responses. Where his tongue meets my clit, frost magic mingles with heat in a contrast that intensifies everything. The tension coils impossibly tight, my thighs trembling on either side of his head.

"Don't stop," I gasp, hips rising to meet his mouth despite my ungainly form. "Fuck, don't you dare stop. I'm so close."

I feel the curve of his smile against my wet flesh before he redoubles his efforts, one hand sliding up to cup my breast through the thin fabric of my nightclothes, the other sliding two fingers inside me with expert precision. The dual stimulation sends me crashing over the edge, release washing through me with staggering intensity.

"That's it," he growls against my inner thigh, voice rough with desire as his fingers continue working inside me, drawing out my pleasure. "Let me taste how sweet you are when you come for me."

Magic discharges with my climax—no longer just Winter Court frost but elemental magic exploding outward from where our bodies connect. The chamber walls bloom with elaborate patterns: vines of spring green intertwining with summer gold flames, autumn amber leaves floating through currents of winter blue ice. The magic responds to our connection, manifesting the balanced elements our children represent.

As I descend from the peak, struggling to catch my breath, Cadeyrn makes his way back up my body. His expression carries equal parts tenderness and unmistakable hunger, his own arousal evident in the hard length of his cock pressing against my thigh. I taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, along with the distinctive flavor of his winter magic now infused with wilder elements.

"My turn," I say, already pushing at his shoulders. His obvious confusion as I maneuver him onto his back would be comical if I weren't so intent on my goal.

"Briar, you don't need to?—"

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