Page 13

CHAPTER 13

POV: Briar

The crimson moon hangs fat and swollen above me, bleeding all over the night sky like some ripe wound. Its light drips through silver leaves, turning everything blood-red and nightmare-strange. I stop dead in a small clearing, face upturned, staring at the thing that's making my life a living hell right now.

Three nights ago, that moon just had a red tint. Tonight? It's obscene—dominating everything with that sickly glow.

"Figures," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Bleeding moon above, bleeding omegas below. Poetry."

The moonlight feels wrong tonight. It's not just lighting things up—it's crawling over my skin, sinking in, like it wants inside me. Those herbs the old woman gave me? Useless now. My heat is roaring through me, worse than anything I could have imagined. I'm burning up even though the night air is cool enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. My skin feels raw, like I've been scrubbed with sandpaper, every breeze a torment of sensation.

I slam my palm against the nearest tree to keep from falling over, dizzy and disoriented. My senses have gone crazy—everything's too much. A twig snaps somewhere far off and my whole body tenses like it's a battle drum. Leaves rustle overhead and I'm sure someone's watching me. Then a howl cuts through the night from the east—some fae alpha marking his territory—and my body just betrays me, warmth pooling between my thighs, inner muscles clenching around nothing.

"You backstabbing traitor," I snarl at my own body, gritting my teeth and forcing my wobbly legs to keep moving. No matter how much my stupid omega biology begs for relief.

The forest feels alive tonight, actually alive, its pulse matching the rhythm of that bloody moonlight. I drag my fingers along a tree trunk as I pass and—holy shit—it lights up under my touch. Like something's awake inside it, glowing through the bark before fading back into darkness. I kick up some dirt and suddenly the air fills with smells—rain-soaked earth, lightning, and something else, something old that makes the back of my neck prickle.

I squint at the Survivor’s map, trying to follow the lines north toward some caves that might keep me safe from Summer Court alphas. I should’ve been there by now, but I keep having to stop every few minutes when another wave of heat surges through me, leaving me panting and damp and furious.

A fox appears on the path ahead, its russet coat turned blood-dark in the crimson light. Instead of fleeing at my approach, it sits back on its haunches and watches me with unnerving intentness. Its eyes reflect intelligence beyond animal awareness, assessing me with almost human consideration before it turns and trots away into the underbrush.

"That's new," I murmur, uncertain whether to be concerned or comforted by the unusual behavior.

The wildlife has been acting strangely all day as I make my way through the forest. Deer freeze in place as I pass, eyes tracking my movement until I'm gone from sight. Birds go silent at my approach but resume their calls in patterns that sound almost like conversation once I've moved beyond their perches.

I'm still freaking out about the glowing trees when a massive wolf just appears on the path ahead of me. Not just big—huge, with a silver-gray coat that sparkles in the moonlight like it's been dusted with diamonds. My hand goes straight to my knife—like that tiny blade would do anything against those teeth, but it's better than nothing. The beast just stands there staring at me, yellow eyes boring into mine like it's reading my thoughts.

Then it—no, I must be hallucinating from the heat—it bows its head to me. Actually bows. Then just melts away into the bushes like a ghost.

"What in the actual fuck—" I choke out, then snap my mouth shut when something rustles in the trees overhead. Great. More creepy watchers.

The forest isn't just alive tonight—it's awake. Watching me. All of it. I can feel eyes from every direction, the weight of attention pressing against my skin. The weird thing is, it doesn't scare me like it should. It's not threatening—more like I'm being... studied. Recognized. Like the forest knows me somehow.

The crimson moonlight grows stronger as the night deepens, and with it, my symptoms intensify. Sweat beads along my hairline despite the cool air. My nipples harden to painful points against the rough fabric of my shirt. The ache between my thighs transforms from discomfort to insistent demand, moisture gathering with every step.

A cry rips through the night—an omega being claimed. I can hear everything in that sound: the pain of teeth breaking skin, the shock of being filled too suddenly, and worst of all, the unmistakable pleasure underneath it all. I catch a glimpse through the trees—a flash of pale skin against darker flesh, a female form pinned beneath a much larger male, her back arched as he drives into her.

Another cry joins from somewhere to my right—higher, more desperate. Then another, and another. The Hunt is everywhere tonight.

"Oh god," I whisper, pressing my thighs together so hard they tremble. My own body responds instantly, treacherously—warmth flooding between my legs, nipples tightening to painful points, a hollow ache deep inside that's almost a cramp. I hate it. I hate how much my body wants what my mind rejects. How fascinating it is to hear those cries. How terrified I am. How stupidly, shamefully aroused.

Fergus's awkward lessons on omega biology never covered this—this animal need that turns your own body into your enemy. "When heat comes, it's just chemistry," he'd said, all gruff practicality. Yeah, right. Chemistry doesn't begin to cover the desperate emptiness clawing at my insides right now.

"Keep moving," I tell myself firmly. "One foot in front of the other."

The map indicates a small spring ahead, and the promise of cool water drives me forward when my body wants nothing more than to collapse into the moss and give in to the fever consuming me. When I finally reach it, I drop to my knees beside the bubbling water, plunging my hands and then my entire face into its blessed coolness.

The relief is immediate but temporary. As soon as I withdraw, the heat returns, more intense for having been briefly suppressed. I gulp water desperately, hoping hydration might help where willpower is failing.

The air is thick with scents that make my head spin—rutting alphas and heat-drunk omegas, their smells mingling in a punch-to-the-gut cocktail that's impossible to ignore. Every breeze seems deliberately cruel, bringing new waves of alpha musk straight to me. Each distinctive scent hits me like a physical touch—some earthy and woody, others spiced and warm—all triggering these pathetic little shudders across my skin, making me wetter, making my knees weaker with each passing minute.

Then I catch it—a scent that's different from all the others. Clean snow. Ice crystals. Something masculine that cuts through everything else like a knife. My omega hindbrain actually whines for it.

Cadeyrn. The Winter Prince isn't close enough to track me directly, but he's marked this entire area. His scent is everywhere, wrapping around me like possessive hands.

My reaction is humiliating. Instant, powerful, undeniable. My inner muscles clench and release around nothing, empty and aching. A desperate little sound builds in my throat before I choke it back, swallowing it down with what's left of my pride. This isn't really me—it's just stupid omega biology. Just the Hunt magic screwing with my head, trying to make me into a breeding machine.

"Just chemicals," I whisper, forcing one foot in front of the other. "Just fucking chemicals." Each step feels like a tiny victory in a war I'm clearly losing against my own desperate body.

The night deepens around me. Exhaustion makes every step an effort, but stopping seems more dangerous than continuing. I need sheltered rest before my strength fails completely. According to the map, I should reach the lightning-struck oak soon, the landmark that will guide me toward the caves and temporary sanctuary from pursuit.

When I finally spot it, the massive tree stands like a sentinel in a small clearing, its upper half shattered by ancient lightning strike. The exposed heartwood gleams silver in the crimson moonlight, and the ground around its base is unusually clear of underbrush, as if nothing dares grow in its shadow.

My instincts scream a warning before my conscious mind processes what's wrong—the clearing is too perfect, too obviously a place where a tired, heat-addled omega might stop to rest. A trap, perhaps, or at least a natural observation point for hunting alphas.

I circle wide instead, keeping to the densest shadows, moving with painful slowness to avoid disturbing the leaf litter. The caution costs precious energy I can barely afford to spend, but the alternative could cost far more.

Beyond the oak, the forest floor begins a subtle descent, the first indication I'm approaching the northern valleys where caves have formed. The trees thin slightly, and the air carries a hint of coolness that offers welcome relief to my overheated skin.

I find shelter in a hollow beneath exposed roots again, a space barely large enough for my body but well-concealed from casual observation. The cramped quarters are uncomfortable but secure, and at this point, security matters more than comfort.

From my shelter, the sounds of the Hunt grow louder all around me. The cries of claimed omegas carry clearly now, impossible to ignore. Some voices break with pain, others moan with unwilling pleasure as their bodies respond to claiming .

I press my hands over my ears, but it does nothing to block the sounds—or my body's response to them. Every cry sends pulses through me, my omega biology recognizing and responding to the claiming itself no matter how brutal or unwanted.

The silver bracelet burns against my skin, the cillae now extending nearly to my elbow. They pulse with faint blue light whenever a particularly strong wave of heat washes through me, as if responding to my symptoms. Whatever magic the Winter Prince worked into these patterns, it isn't static—it's evolving, growing, spreading with each passing hour of the Hunt.

Even after a week of cramped, feverish sleep, I’m still unused to resting in these conditions. My body craves real sleep, the kind that comes when I feel safe and comfortable. I force myself to close my eyes, knowing that exhaustion will only make tomorrow's journey more dangerous. The Survivor's map showed safe paths through this region, but following them requires clear thinking and steady hands—neither of which I'll have without rest.

Despite my determination to remain vigilant, unconsciousness claims me eventually, dragging me down into dreams vivid enough to seem like visions.

I dream of ice, but not the killing cold of winter storms. This ice is beautiful, alive—frost spreading across my skin in delicate patterns like silver lace. It starts at my wrist where that damned bracelet sits, then flows upward, covering me completely. The crystalline patterns pulse with soft blue light as they trace every curve of my body. They don't feel cold or dangerous—they feel like being touched everywhere at once, making my skin hypersensitive, alive with sensation.

The dream shifts and suddenly I'm walking through hallways made of pure crystal, walls so clear and perfect they seem impossible. Snow falls inside this palace, tiny flakes drifting down from an unseen sky. But the strangest part is they're not cold. Each snowflake lands on my bare skin (when did I lose my clothes?) and melts into a point of heat that spreads outward like a caress. At the end of this impossible hall stands a throne carved from glacier ice, throbbing with a slow, steady rhythm. A heartbeat. Not mine—but one that calls to mine, pulling at something deep inside me.

Someone sits on that throne, hidden in shadow despite all the brightness. I don't need to see his face. I know it's him. Cadeyrn. He's waiting for me—has been waiting, maybe for centuries. Patient as only immortals can be. I take a step toward him, then another. I should be running the other way, but in this dream, I can admit what I want. What I need.

Before I reach him, everything dissolves, the scene changing. Now I'm lying on a bed made of ice that somehow feels warm against my bare back. Dark hands with frost rimming the fingertips are touching me everywhere, tracing patterns that match the frost on my skin. I arch into those touches, shameless in a way I'd never allow myself awake. A mouth—hot, so unexpectedly hot—claims mine in a bruising kiss, then starts moving lower. Down my throat, where my pulse hammers frantically. Across my breasts, where my nipples tighten almost painfully. Over my stomach, which quivers under that demanding mouth. Lower still, toward the molten core between my thighs that's practically screaming for attention.

I wake with a gasp, my whole body shaking, hovering right on the edge of an orgasm that isn't coming. Sweat soaks my clothes, my hair, everything, despite the cool night air. The emptiness inside me has turned into a gnawing, hollow ache so intense I have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood just to keep from crying out and giving away my position.

"Shit, shit, shit," I pant, pressing the heel of my hand between my legs, giving myself just enough pressure to take the sharpest edge off. It doesn't help much.

Red moonlight seeps through the gaps in the roots above me, painting everything in sick bloody light. I raise my arm to push sweaty hair off my face and then freeze, staring in horror. The cillae have spread while I slept—they now reach almost to my shoulder, delicate swirling patterns that look exactly like what I just saw in my dream. Too exact to be coincidence.

"What the fuck are you doing to me?" I whisper into the darkness, not even sure who I'm talking to—the Winter Prince who's somehow marking me from a distance? The Hunt itself? My own traitorous body that's practically begging to be claimed?

Nobody answers me, of course, but the forest around me rustles and shifts, like it's thinking about it.

I force myself to breathe through the lingering effects of the dream, focusing on practical matters rather than the desperate needs of flesh. The vial from The Survivor rests secure against my heart. The map showing secret paths is safely tucked in my boot. I have water, some food, knowledge of the terrain ahead. I can survive this night, and the next, and the next after that.

Thirteen more days suddenly seems an eternity.

When my hands stop shaking, I emerge cautiously from my shelter. The forest has changed again, the crimson moonlight transforming familiar terrain into something alien and seductive. The silver leaves overhead seem to tremble with awareness, and the black bark of the trees gleams with hints of deep red where moonlight strikes it directly.

I consult the map by that same light, tracing the path ahead with my finger. The caves should be less than half a day's journey if I maintain steady pace—a significant "if" given my current physical state. The Survivor marked them as neutral territory, avoided by most alphas due to ancient territorial agreements that even the courts still honor.

Temporary sanctuary, if I can reach it before my heat symptoms progress beyond my ability to function.

I pack my few belongings and orient myself northward, using the stars visible through breaks in the canopy. Despite the early hour—still long before dawn—I don’t dare to remain in one place too long. The sounds of pursuit have grown closer during my brief rest, howls and calls that communicate information between hunting alphas.

Then I hear it—one howl rising above all the others. Deeper. More commanding. It vibrates with harmonics that seem to resonate in my very bones, calling to something primitive inside me. The Winter Prince, calling to his prey. To me.

The sound is everywhere and nowhere, impossible to run from. It bypasses all my carefully constructed defenses and speaks directly to the omega I've kept locked away for years. My body's response is instant and humiliating—my knees go weak, wetness floods between my thighs, and a pathetic little whimper rises in my throat before I can stop it.

I choke it back, absolutely furious. "Not yours," I snarl through clenched teeth, digging my nails into my palms until they break skin. "Not anyone's. Fuck you."

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I'm lying to myself. Something's changed tonight under this blood-red moon. These cillae crawling up my arm aren't just pretty designs—they're a claiming mark, as real as any bite. He's marked me from a distance somehow, the way a normal alpha would mark with teeth and scent.

Prince Cadeyrn hasn't touched me physically, yet his magic spreads through me with every hour that passes. The silver bracelet pulses in time with distant howls, its original purpose now expanded to something more intimate, more invasive.

I don't understand the how or why of this long-distance claiming, but its reality becomes harder to deny with each passing hour. The Survivor didn't seem surprised by it, which suggests this isn't entirely unprecedented—rare, perhaps, but known to those who understand the Hunt's deeper magic.

The forest stirs around me as I walk, responding to my passage with subtle movements that could be threat or protection—I'm not certain which. The crimson moonlight intensifies overhead, reaching its zenith for this night. In its bloodred glow, the cillae on my arm pulse with answering blue light, the colors merging where they meet to create deep violet hues that spread and fade with each throb of my pulse.

I continue northward, one foot before the other, refusing to surrender to the demands of heat and hunt and ancient magic. My body may respond to these forces, but my mind—my will—remains my own.

For now, at least, that has to be enough.