Page 15

CHAPTER 15

POV: Briar

I've seen predators before. You grow up in a border village, you learn to recognize the wolf in the woods, the snake in the grass. But nothing prepares you for a hunter who uses kindness to lure his prey in.

The Huntsman earns his reputation through deception. While other alphas prowl with open hunger, he uses gentleness as his weapon.

I crouch behind a fallen log at the edge of a small clearing, my muscles cramping from holding still too long. This clearing popped up before me as I skirted the forest’s path, attempting to avoid the Winter Prince and his cold scent. Somehow I wound up returning to the Huntsman’s territory instead, not far from where he lured young Mira towards him.

That’s what I get for avoiding one predator: another one appears before me instead. The forest’s sick way of punishing me, I suppose.

The flowers here bloom in impossibly saturated colors—violet and crimson and gold, their perfume almost overwhelming my heat-heightened senses. Too perfect to be natural. Their beauty must be another layer of the Huntsman's trap.

Through a gap in the rotting wood, I watch him track his prey across the clearing. An omega I recognize from the Gathering Circle—Lira, a village musician with dark hair that falls in elaborate braids around her slender shoulders. I'd heard whispers about her—how the lyrics of her songs subtly insulted and mocked the fae courts, how she was selected for the Hunt as a punishment.

The Huntsman moves with casual grace, his chestnut hair falling across eyes that glow an unnaturally bright green. Unlike the other alphas I've seen, he projects an aura of calm concern. His face, arranged in perfect sympathy, would be beautiful if it weren't so terrifyingly faked.

"You're hurt," he calls to Lira, his voice melodic and soothing. "Let me help you."

My jaw clenches as I watch Lira hesitate, her flight instinct warring with exhaustion and the magnetic pull of a seemingly kind voice after days of terror. She clutches a small bone flute in white-knuckled fingers—her only possession from home, no doubt.

"I won't harm you," the Huntsman promises, extending his hand palm-up in a gesture of peace. "The others might, but I'm different. I can protect you until the Hunt ends."

Lira takes a half-step forward, hope flickering across her face. My heart pounds harder. I want to scream at her to run, to tell her it's all lies, but even that small sound would give away my position.

That's when I see it—the first sign of his true nature. As Lira comes close, small flowers begin to bloom across the Huntsman's forearms. They emerge from beneath his skin, unfurling in delicate spirals of color that shift from pale pink to deep crimson as he draws closer to her. The colors deepen the closer she gets, the blooms becoming more vibrant with each flicker of terror that crosses her face.

He feeds on her fear. The realization hits me like ice water. Those flowers are a warning sign, blossoming in response to her distress. An emotion he no doubt feeds on when he takes his prey, the callous, manipulative fucker.

Lira sees it too. Her body tenses, preparing to flee. I drop my hand to the sheath at my thigh, desperately wondering if there’s a way I can help her, knowing that my small makeshift blade would be useless against a powerful fae alpha. The only chance I have of using it is if I wait until he’s vulnerable—and that will only happen when he’d knotted her, at which point it’ll be too late to save her from his brutality.

"Don't be afraid," he soothes, the flowers on his skin dripping red petals as he speaks. "The blooms are part of Spring Court nature. They're harmless."

Another lie. I've never seen anything less harmless in my life.

I need to act. Now. Before he gets any closer to her.

If I can’t take him out with my knife, maybe I can help her run from him and get to safety, like I helped Mira. Like I failed to help Sera.

My eyes scan the clearing, looking for anything that might create a distraction. In a nearby tree, just above where the Huntsman stands, hangs a large hornets' nest.

Perfect.

I reach for a stone, testing its weight in my palm. The movement sends a fresh wave of heat through my body, my skin flushing hot as my symptoms flare. The cillae around my wrist pulse in response, momentarily bright enough to be visible through my sleeve.

Gritting my teeth against the brutality of my own biology, I take aim and throw.

The stone arcs through the air, striking the hornets' nest with a satisfying crack. The reaction is immediate and chaotic—angry insects boil out in a furious cloud, descending on the closest target.

The Huntsman's gentle mask slips as he's engulfed in hornets. He curses and snarls as he swats angrily at the swarm. The flowers on his skin wither and blacken, vile poison dripping down his arms.

Lira doesn't waste the opportunity. She bolts toward the tree line, away from both the hornets and her pursuer. As she passes near my hiding place, I catch her eye and gesture urgently toward a game trail partially hidden by undergrowth—a path that will lead her toward one of the havens marked on my stolen map.

She hesitates only a heartbeat. With a quick nod of gratitude, she changes course, disappearing into the dense foliage.

My momentary triumph sours quickly as the Huntsman regains control of the situation. With a pulse of Spring Court magic, he surrounds himself with a cloud of pollen that drives away the hornets. His expression has transformed completely—the mask of kindness replaced by cold calculation as he scans the clearing.

"Clever," he says in a cold, unfeeling voice. "But unwise to interfere with a claiming."

He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. I press myself lower behind the log, painfully aware that my heat-scent grows stronger with each passing hour despite the herbs I've used to mask it. The Huntsman turns slowly, his unnatural green eyes passing over my hiding place once, then returning with interest.

"I smell you, little trickster," he says softly. "Sweet omega in heat, hiding where you shouldn't be."

Fuck. I prepare to run, muscles tensing. The Huntsman takes one step toward my position, then another, the ground beneath his feet blooming with tiny flowers. The hunt has shifted, his focus now entirely on me rather than Lira.

"Come out," he croons. "I won't be angry about the hornets. In fact, I appreciate the spirit it shows. So much more satisfying than those who simply surrender."

He's close enough now that I can see the flowers blooming across his skin have changed. Their colors shift from crimson to deep purple, their scent thickening the air between us.

I draw my makeshift knife, wondering if I can use it as a throwing knife, but he's still too far away for it to be effective. If I throw it now, I won’t have it if he grabs me. My window for escape narrows with each step he takes. I need a distraction far bigger and more violent than hornets.

That's when it happens.

The air temperature plunges so rapidly that my next breath turns to fog. The ground beneath the Huntsman's feet crackles as it glazes with ice, a frozen sheet spreading outward from where he stands. He stumbles, losing his footing on the suddenly slick surface.

Frost forms on the tree trunks all around us, ice creeping up stems and across leaves. Even the flowers on the Huntsman's skin seem affected, their vibrant colors dulling as their edges crisp with frost.

"Winter Court," he spits. He regains his balance, eyes darting around the clearing with new wariness. "This isn't your territory, Prince."

No answer comes from the silent forest, but the temperature drops further. I can feel it even through my heat-fevered skin—a cold so intense it burns.

The Huntsman's confidence falters visibly. The flowers on his skin retreat beneath the surface, leaving only faint outlines like scars across his forearms. He backs away one careful step at a time, scenting the air continuously.

"Keep your stolen prize, then," he says to the empty clearing. "There are easier claims to be made."

With that, he turns and retreats toward his established territory, disappearing among the trees. The clearing falls silent except for the soft crackle of frost slowly receding from the vegetation.

I remain hidden, heart hammering against my ribs. Only when I'm certain the Huntsman is gone do I move, my stiff muscles protesting as I carefully stand.

The ice is already melting, disappearing with unnatural speed. Within minutes, the only magic left is a lingering chill in the air and a few frost-damaged flowers scattered across the ground.

Prince Cadeyrn. It must have been him.

My fingers trace the cillae visible beneath my sleeve, identical to those that just covered the clearing. The Winter Prince is watching over me—though whether to protect me or simply reserve me as his prey, remains unclear.

"I know you're there," I say to the silent forest, clenching my fists in anger at the damned prince’s intervention. "I don't need your protection."

No answer comes, but the silver bracelet pulses once, a brief flare of cold that shoots up my arm and settles somewhere beneath my breastbone. A reminder that I'm already marked by the fucking bastard.

The forest whispers around me, silver leaves rustling with secrets just beyond my understanding. I should feel frightened by this clear evidence of the Winter Prince's attention, but another emotion threads through my fear—a strange, reluctant gratitude that makes no rational sense.

He saved me from the Huntsman. He saved Lira too, indirectly.

But why? What makes me worth this intervention when dozens of other omegas are being hunted, claimed, and discarded throughout the Bloodmoon Forest?

The question follows me as I gather my supplies and continue my journey, moving carefully through territories that grow more dangerous by the hour. The Winter Prince's ice magic lingers in the air around me like an invisible cloak, both protection and claim. My body responds to it with shameful eagerness, heat flaring beneath my skin wherever the cold touches.

I refuse to consider what it might mean that my omega instincts recognize his alpha presence even without him physically being there. Refuse to acknowledge the treacherous part of me that's almost disappointed he didn't appear in person.

The Hunt continues, and I with it. One more day survived, twelve more to go.