Page 83 of Run Little Omega

The messengers retreat with formal bows, but their scents betray uncertainty. They don't believe I'll return to court—or perhaps they don't believe I'll be permitted to if I try.

As their white forms disappear into the darkness, Briar steps beside me, her warmth a counterpoint to the ice I've unconsciously spread across our shelter.

"That sounded ominous," she says, sliding her hand into mine. The touch sends a current of sensation up my arm, cillae lighting in response. "Are you worried?"

I turn to face her, studying the woman who has somehow become more important than seven centuries of carefully curated power. In the dim light, her skin glows with the cillae that mirror my own, her eyes holding flecks of my winter blue. The sight stirs something possessive and primal within me.

"No," I answer truthfully. "Court politics have always been treacherous. The difference now is that I find myself caring less about maintaining power and more about..." I pause, unused to articulating such sentiments.

"About?" She prompts, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"About you." The admission feels strange on my tongue, too simple to encompass the complexity of what's happened between us. "About what we're becoming together."

Her expression softens, a vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. "And what exactly are we becoming, Cadeyrn?"

I reach out, tracing the frost pattern that curves along her jawline. "Something unprecedented. Something neither the courts nor I could have predicted." My voice drops lower. "My father once told me that true power requires absolute control. That attachment is weakness."

"And now?" Her pulse quickens beneath my touch.

"Now I wonder if he was wrong about many things." I allow my fingers to trace down her neck, following the path of the frost. "I've never felt stronger than since claiming you. Never felt more alive."

She studies my face, searching for deception. "Even though your court is turning against you? Even though four courts are hunting us?"

I smile, feeling the feral edge to it. "Because of those things, perhaps. For centuries, I played their game of political calculation and strategic alliances. I claimed omegas chosen for their bloodline compatibility, never for..." I trail off, unsure how to articulate this foreign concept.

"Never for desire," she finishes for me, her scent shifting subtly to match the hunger in my own.

"No. Never for desire." My hand slides to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing against my claiming mark. "Until you."

The air between us charges with electricity, cillae across both our skins pulsing in synchronized rhythm. Her pupils dilate, a mirror to my own arousal.

"I've lived seven centuries," I tell her, voice dropping to a whisper as I draw her closer. "But I never felt truly awake until I claimed you."

When our lips meet, the connection sparks with literal frost—tiny crystals forming in the air around us as magic responds to emotion. Her mouth is warm against mine, her body pressing forward with that fearless desire that first captivated me in the forest. There is no submission in the way she kisses—only equal hunger, equal need.

My hands slide down her sides, appreciating the strength in her form—so different from the fragile court omegas bred for appearance rather than resilience. Her body bears the marks of forge work, muscle built through years of hammering metal rather than ornamental existence. I trace each plane and curve, memorizing her through touch as her breathing quickens.

"I never thought I'd want an alpha's hands on me," she confesses against my lips. "Never thought I'd crave being claimed."

"And now?" I ask, echoing her earlier question.

Her answer is to pull me back to our makeshift bed of furs, drawing me down atop her with surprising strength. My rut responds instantly, blood rushing southward as her scent envelops me.

"Now I find myself wanting things I never imagined," she admits, her honesty as arousing as her touch.

I lower my head to her throat, breathing in the intoxicating blend of her natural scent and the frost magic pulsing beneath her skin. When my teeth graze the claiming mark, she arches against me with a gasp that sends fire through my veins.

"You've changed me," I murmur against her skin. "In ways I'm only beginning to understand."

"Show me," she challenges, amber eyes gleaming with flecks of winter blue.

I take my time exploring her body, tracing cillae across her skin with my tongue, delighting in her responsive shudders. The blacksmith's daughter has callused hands and muscled shoulders—evidence of a life of labor that somehow makes her more beautiful to me than any pampered court omega.

When I move lower, she tenses briefly in surprise.

"What are you?—"

"Let me," I interrupt, looking up at her from between her thighs. "Let me taste you."

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