Page 21 of Run Little Omega

“This had better fucking work,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow with a dirty forearm.

The only thing getting me through all of this is the knowledge that I might buy another omega precious time, might even save a life. I think of Willow back home, safe in her bed instead of being hunted like an animal, fuels me like bellows feeding a flame.

I drop the branch and make my way to a nearby stream, stepping only on stones so that I don’t leave a trail of my own. Cold water splashes over my boots as I move upstream, washing away any scent trail that might lead alphas to me. I want to lead them away from the other omegas, yes—but I’m not going to make it easy for them to find me.

I’m not naive enough to believe I can outsmart fae alphas indefinitely. The Hunt has existed for centuries, and they’re faster, stronger, older than us. But I don’t need forever. Just twenty-one days.

Twenty-one days that stretch before me. Long, impossible days.

My midday, I feel it. A spark of warmth beginning to build low in my belly. The first warning sign of heat.

I push it away and continue my work, creating a false trail away from where I plan on creating a temporary base for myself. I’ve selected a hollowed-out tree trunk inside a small clearing, with a stream on one side and thick blackthorn trees on the other. As long as any approaching alphas are waylaid by my false trail, even temporarily, I should have time to defend myself.

I’ve also made a small blade, tucked against my skin on the outside of my right thigh, just beneath the shift. It’s crude, fashioned from a thick, broad stick I found, and a rusted blade that nearly sliced my foot open. But it’s sharp, and that’s all I need. The strips of my shift that I used to put it together have made it into more of a shirt than anything, but that’s a small price to pay considering that my first dreaded encounter with an alpha is sure to tear it away completely.

As I’m finishing up my false trail, a sharp, clean scent hits my nose. Moving carefully through the forest, stepping only on rocks and roots, I make my way to a cluster of wild mint growing near the stream. I gather handfuls, crushing the leaves between my palms and rubbing the oils over my skin, clothes, and hair. The plant’s aroma won’t completely mask my scent, especially once I’m in heat, but it’s better than nothing.

As I work, the glamour spell flickers briefly, the sensation like cool water running across my skin. In my reflection in the stream, copper strands flash through platinum blonde for just an instant. The more I move, the faster I breathe, the more the magic strains.

“Fuck,” I hiss, slowing my movements and watching as the glamour falls back into place.

It’ll be hard to keep it up while I’m running from alphas and fighting the fae.

I’ll need to pace myself. The glamour has gotten me into the Hunt—and bought Willow precious survival time—but if it fails this soon, I risk her being hauled from Thornwick and thrown into the forest beside me. Not to mention the punishment I’ll no doubt receive, though I’m prepared to accept that as long as she’s safe.

I won’t be safe for long, no matter how much I prepare.

The thought send a chill through me despite the warm afternoon air, as cold as a plunge into ice water.

The forest grows quieter as the day progesses. The silence only sets me on edge—like the silence before a raging storm. Birds and insects have gone silent, no doubt sensing the predators in their midst.

The alphas are on the move.

So I double up on my defensive measures, knowing that some of my trails will lead alphas to my resting spot, even with the false trails I’ve created leading away from it. I weave fallen green branches and vines into crude tripwires around my campsite. They won’t injure the fae—that’s next to impossible—but they will warn me they’re coming.

“Not exactly my finest work,” I murmur, wishing I had my forge, “but it’ll have to do.”

Thinking of the forge reminds me that Fergus will be realizing that I’m missing, not merely running errands, by now. Was he worried, angry, maybe even proud of me? Did he suspect what I was up to? I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t risk that he’d try to stop me.

I drink water from my cupped hands and chew on some of the wild mint, aware that I need to ration both food and energy. Even with their cruelty, the fae know we need food to survive the next twenty-one days—the havens have meat, cheese, and bread stores—but I want to put off using them for as long as possible, since each haven’s protection only lasts twelve hours. The forest provides if you know where to look, but gathering food means leaving trails, so I decide to wait until the morning to look for wild mushrooms and fallen nuts.

It’s said that the fae alphas, in the middle of rut, become ruthless hunters, killing all deer, rabbits, and other prey animals they see, often leaving their bodies behind. Smart omegas venture out to gather the meat and bring it back to their campsites, while others… others are fed during claiming. Alphas in rut will make campfires and fatten their omegas, usually while knotting inside them, knowing that their seed is more likely to take if the omega receives nourishment.

The thought of eating wild venison cooked over a campfire, fed to me by a monstrous alpha while his knot swells inside me, makes me prefer going hungry.

As I finish my meager meal of mint leaves and a little piece of stale bread I swiped from the tent this morning, a distant sound freezes me and chills me to the bone. A howl—not quite animal, not quite human—rises from the eastern edge of the forest. Another answers from the north, then another. My pulse races as I realize what I’m hearing.

The alphas are calling to each other, coordinating their hunt. Worse, they seem to be calling to the wind—Spring Court alpha magic. A breeze caresses my skin then whips unnaturally to the side, as if tasting my scent and bringing it back to its maker.

When another set of howls echoes nearby, moving closer to me, I make the choice to abandon my campsite. It’s useless if they’ve found my trail—I’ll have to cover my scent better. Packing my makeshift weapons quickly, I move out, keeping to the densest part of the undergrowth. Hopefully the thick brush will block any further breezes from catching my scent.

The forest floor here is a carpet of silver-edged leaves from the blackthorn trees, their thick, glossy surfaces reflecting the meager light remaining overhead. They rustle loudly as I pass through, forcing me to move slowly, carefully, searching for exposed roots to step on. My caution rewards me when I spot movement ahead—a flash of pale white that doesn’t belong to any plant. I sink into a crouch behind a fallen log, wary and on edge.

A young woman huddles in the shadow of a small rock outcropping that forms a shallow cave. Her dirty blonde hair hangs in a messy braid, and her blue eyes dart frantically at every sound. Even from this distance, I can smell the sweet, musky scent of early heat radiating from her skin, see the flush spreading up her neck and the sweat beading on her forhead.

Heat symptoms.

I recognize her from the Gathering Circle—Nessa, a farm girl from a village west of Thornwick. Unlike me, she was selected by random drawing, and has no skills or protections to help her survive.

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