Page 16

CHAPTER 16

POV: Briar

I wake in a body that no longer feels like my own.

Not even halfway through the Hunt, and my carefully maintained control has shattered like glass. The heat I've suppressed for eleven years has become a wildfire consuming every rational thought. My skin burns from within, each breeze across my sweat-slicked flesh sending conflicting signals of relief and unbearable stimulation.

"Shit," I whisper, curling into myself at the base of the massive blackthorn where I spent the night. Last evening's encounter with the Huntsman and Prince Cadeyrn's icy intervention feels distant, dreamlike compared to the vivid, immediate demands of my body.

I dig through my supplies for the herbs the Survivor gave me. The small leather pouch contains only a pinch now—barely enough for one more dose. I swallow them dry, grimacing at the bitter taste. They barely have an effect, like a drop of water on scorched earth.

"Just hormones," I remind myself, pressing my forehead against cool moss. "Just my fucking biology."

The words ring hollow. Another wave of heat washes through me, settling low in my abdomen with pulsing insistence. Between my thighs, moisture gathers, making my leggings stick uncomfortably together. The emptiness inside me has become a physical ache, a hollow space demanding to be filled.

I force myself to stand, to focus on practical matters. Survival first. Discomfort later.

The forest is awake, just like me. Silver leaves turn to follow my movement, branches shift to clear my path, roots flatten to ease my steps. I've gotten used to it, which is somehow more disturbing than if it distressed me.

Most disturbing is my new awareness of alphas in the forest around me. They're not visible or audible, yet I sense their presence like phantom pressure against my skin. One prowls a half-mile east—Summer Court by the warm spice of his magic. Two more move in tandem to the south—the Raveling Brothers, their movements unmistakable even at this distance.

And somewhere north, a cold presence, vast and patient as a glacier. Cadeyrn.

My body turns toward him instinctively before I force myself back on course. The silver bracelet pulses against my wrist, no longer resembling the device placed on me at the Gathering Circle. Cillae spread from it in delicate crystalline whorls that now reach my elbow, beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

"Not yours," I whisper, though my body's reaction suggests otherwise.

I make my way toward a stream I spotted on the Survivor's map, hoping cold water might provide temporary relief from the heat consuming me. When I find it, the clear water bubbling over smooth stones looks like salvation.

I kneel at the edge, plunging my hands into the blessed coolness. To my shock, tiny ice crystals form around my fingers, across the water's surface before quickly melting. I jerk back, staring at my hands in confusion and growing fear.

"What's happening to me?"

I lean forward, catching my reflection in the still pool. The face staring back flickers and waivers—platinum blonde hair briefly replaced by copper, green eyes shifting to amber-gold before returning to Willow's appearance. The glamour struggles to maintain itself.

Is it the Winter Prince's magic working Across my skin? The fact that I'm in heat now? Or something else, something about the ancient forest around me and how it responds to me?

I splash water on my face, hoping to clear my thoughts. When I lift my cupped hands, frost forms along my fingertips briefly before dissolving. The sensation isn't unpleasant—a cool counterpoint to the burning heat that radiates from within.

After drinking as much as I can and eating a small meal of bread, cheese, and an apple, it’s time to go. I stay alert as I head in the direction that smells the least of alpha rut. I set new false trails, cross streams to break my scent, and use every trick Fergus taught me to confuse potential hunters.

But my heart isn't in it with the same passion anymore. Part of me—a growing, insistent part—wants to be found. Wants strong hands and sharp teeth and the relief of surrender. The thought terrifies me more than any alpha's pursuit.

At midday I find a blackberry thicket and gather handfuls of the sweet fruit, juice staining my fingers purple as I eat. The simple pleasure of food grounds me briefly in something other than heat-fever.

That's when I smell it—heat and rut, so powerful and consuming that it settles into my skin.

Every instinct screams to run in the opposite direction, but curiosity and a strange, compulsive need to know outweigh caution. I move silently toward the source, using trees and undergrowth as cover.

The sounds reach me before the scene comes into view—wet, rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh, deep grunts punctuated by high-pitched whimpers that might be pain or pleasure or some terrible combination of both. The scents hit me next—the copper tang of fresh blood, the musky secretions of alpha rut, the sweet-salt smell of an omega in forced heat.

I freeze at the edge of a small sunlit clearing, instinctively crouching behind a fallen log. My body goes rigid, my breath caught in my throat.

What I see burns itself permanently into my memory.

This is claiming—raw, primal, and brutally real. Out here in the open forest where the Hunt makes it all more brutal. Where omegas are broken and remade according to alpha desire.

The alpha dominates the clearing—a mountain of rippling muscle with skin that shimmers gold in the dappled light, marking him as Summer Court. His body has been transformed by rut, evolved for this single purpose—the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the powerful thighs flexing with each thrust, the back etched with sweat-slicked muscles that bunch and release in hypnotic rhythm. His leather breeches are pushed just low enough to free his member, the flesh an angry purple-red, swollen to a size that seems impossible for any body to accommodate.

But it's his face that terrifies me most—handsome features twisted into something barely recognizable, eyes completely black with dilated pupils, lips pulled back to reveal elongated canines dripping with saliva and blood. The flowers of Summer Court bloom across his exposed skin, bursting open and closing again with each brutal movement, feeding on the violence he creates.

Between his powerful thighs lies Flora—the same omega who lectured us all about survival strategies during our last night of freedom, the one I'd last seen at the haven with her perfect platinum hair and violet eyes. The memory of her clinical instructions about how to survive claiming flashes through my mind—the same omega who spoke so detachedly about the Hunt's mechanics is now experiencing it firsthand, her in-depth knowledge no defense against brutal reality. Her violet eyes, once sharp with calculated intelligence, now reflect practiced submission. Her platinum hair fans out around her head in a deliberate display designed to appeal to alpha desires.

"Alpha, please," she whispers, her voice trained to just the right tone—breathy with need but not desperate. "Use me as you wish." She arches her back in a practiced curve, tilting her neck to expose the scent gland at its junction with her shoulder—a textbook perfect presentation from generations of breeding for this exact moment.

The alpha snarls, clearly displeased by her calculated surrender. "Stop performing," he growls, grabbing her hips with bruising force. "I don't want your training. I want your fear."

He flips her onto her stomach with casual violence, mounting her from behind. Flora immediately adjusts, raising her hips at the proper angle to receive him, her body responding with the careful preparation of someone who's been taught exactly what to do since childhood.

"No," the alpha hisses, yanking her hair until her spine bows painfully. "Fight me."

Flora's training wars visibly with the alpha's demand. Her body trembles with the conflicting impulses—submission she's been taught will make the claiming easier versus the resistance this alpha obviously craves.

When she doesn't immediately comply, he sinks his teeth into her shoulder—not at the traditional claiming spot, but higher, where no scent gland exists to ease the pain with bonding hormones. Flora's scream is raw and genuine, the first unscripted sound I've heard from her.

"Better," the alpha purrs against the fresh wound, lapping at the blood with obvious pleasure. "Now I can feel you."

He drives into her with renewed vigor, the sounds of his thrust obscenely wet. Flora's resistance is real now, her body struggling against the type of pain that serves no purpose beyond the alpha's sadism. He responds by biting her again, this time at the back of her neck, pinning her like a predator with its prey.

Despite my horror, my body responds to the scene with shameful eagerness—warmth flooding between my thighs, inner muscles clenching around emptiness, nipples hardening to painful points against my shift. I press my hand against my mouth, fighting back sounds that might give me away.

This could be me. Will be me, if I'm discovered.

The alpha works systematically now, teeth finding new unmarked skin with each thrust—her shoulders, the sensitive skin behind her ear, the curve where neck meets her body. By the time he's established his rhythm, Flora's pale skin is a canvas of bite marks, blood seeping from a dozen wounds to stain the moss beneath them crimson.

What happens next is the most disturbing part of all. Despite the pain, despite the violation of her training, Flora's body begins to respond. I see it in the flush spreading across her skin, the way her back arches not just from pain but from unwilling pleasure. Her scent changes, sweetening with arousal that has nothing to do with conscious choice.

"There it is," the alpha growls, satisfaction evident in his voice. “This is what an omega is meant to be. Brutally fucked and filled with cum.”

Flora moans, the sound startled from her as though she's surprised by her own response. Her hips push back against him now, meeting his thrusts with genuine, unwanted need.

"Please," she gasps, violet eyes unfocused and glassy. "I can't—it's too?—"

"Too much?" the alpha laughs, the sound more animal than human. "This is exactly what you were bred for. To take whatever I give and beg for more."

At the base of his enormous shaft, I can see it forming—the knot, swelling larger with each thrust, stretching Flora's entrance beyond what seems possible. A strangled sound escapes her as he forces it inside with one final, brutal push. His entire body goes rigid, a tremor running from his shoulders to his hips as he empties himself inside her.

"Mine," he snarls, teeth finding her scent gland at last, sinking deep into the junction of neck and shoulder. Flora's back arches in an involuntary bow, a cry torn from her throat that's primal and raw.

The claiming bond forms visibly between them—a subtle shimmer in the air like heat rising from sun-baked stones. Flora's pupils dilate completely, her mouth falling open as the hormones flood her system, turning pain to pleasure and resistance to acceptance. Her hands, which had been clawing at the ground, now relax into languid surrender.

I press my thighs together, disturbed by my body's reaction. My heat-heightened senses pick up every detail—the metallic scent of blood, the musk of rut, the heavy perfume of omega arousal. My own body throbs in sympathy, craving what I've just witnessed despite my mind's revulsion.

The alpha and omega remain locked together by his knot, his massive body covering hers completely as he shifts them to their sides. This is the vulnerability of claiming—the minutes or hours where they're physically unable to separate, where the alpha's seed pumps in rhythmic pulses designed to ensure pregnancy.

"You disappointed me," he murmurs, fingers tracing the array of bite marks he's left on her skin. "All that careful preparation, those practiced movements. The breeding program has taken the wildness out of you."

"I'm sorry, Alpha," Flora whispers, her training reasserting itself even as her body remains locked to his. "I can do better."

"No," he says, something like disgust entering his voice. "You can't. You've been too thoroughly shaped, too perfectly molded. There's nothing real left to break." His hand moves to her flat abdomen, pressing against it with clinical detachment. "The child will be strong, at least. That's something."

I watch, paralyzed by conflicting instincts, as minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The knot slowly recedes, their bodies separating with a wet sound that makes my stomach clench. Flora lies motionless, claimed and used, blood still seeping from the constellation of bite marks that cover her upper body like a grotesque map.

The alpha stands, adjusting his leather breeches with casual indifference. He studies Flora's prone form with open disappointment, head tilted as though assessing livestock.

"Six generations of selective breeding," he mutters, voice rough from exertion. "And this is the result? An omega who surrenders before the hunt even begins?" He spits on the ground beside her. "Summer Court deserves better breeding stock."

Flora's violet eyes open, confusion and lingering fear plainly visible. The alpha was acting in ways no omega like her was trained to expect—erratic, resentful, and most of all, sadistic and cruel.

He lifts his head suddenly, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. His eyes narrow, head turning slowly toward my hiding place.

"What have we here?" he murmurs, a slow smile spreading across his blood-flecked lips. "Something fresher. Something... untamed."

He's sensed me. My heat-scent, growing stronger by the minute, has betrayed my position.

I tense, preparing to run even though I know there’s no point. At least I have my knife, small and makeshift, which I can use to maim him while he’s knotted inside me, or maybe even before that moment if I’m lucky. It won’t save me, but it’s better to go down fighting than surrender—Flora’s suffering is proof of that.

The alpha takes one step toward me, then another, his expression shifting from disappointment to fresh hunger. His shaft, impossibly, begins to swell again, still coated with evidence of his previous claiming.

"Come out, little one," he croons. "You've watched our play. Now it's your turn. I smell no training on you—just raw, untapped potential." His smile widens, revealing teeth still stained with Flora's blood. "Show me how you fight."

What happens next occurs so quickly I barely process the sequence. One moment the alpha is stalking toward me, the next he stops mid-stride, his expression shifting from predatory confidence to confusion. He looks down just as the ground beneath him erupts.

An ice formation—jagged and massive—punches up through the forest floor. It impales him in a single violent thrust, lifting him several feet into the air before branching outward inside his body. Blood fountains from his mouth as ice spears burst through his chest, his abdomen, his throat. His limbs twitch in death spasms, eyes wide with shock as the life drains out of him.

The ice holds him suspended above the clearing, a grotesque trophy displayed for any who might enter this territory. Frost spreads across the ground from the center, creating patterns that spell out a clear warning: Mine. Trespass and die.

I scramble backward, gasping for breath. This isn't just the elimination of competition. This is a message—a declaration of exclusive claim that violates the most fundamental rules of the Hunt. Traditionally, omegas can be pursued by any alpha who catches their scent. This display announces that one omega—me—has been declared exclusive territory.

The brutality of it should revolt me. Instead, I feel a disturbing flutter of... what? Relief? Satisfaction? Whatever emotion rises in response to this violent possessiveness, it belongs to the omega I've denied being for eleven years, not to the blacksmith's apprentice who values her independence above all else.

My pulse races with conflicted feelings as I force myself to my feet. Flora still lies on the ground, staring at her claimer's suspended corpse with stunned disbelief. I can't leave her like this.

I approach cautiously, hands raised to show I mean no harm. "Can you stand?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

She flinches at my voice, violet eyes darting to mine with animal wariness. Recognition dawns slowly. "Willow?" she whispers, using the name I still wear thanks to the failing glamour.

"We need to move," I tell her, helping her to her feet. "Now."

Flora stumbles as she stands, her legs barely supporting her weight. Blood seeps from the constellation of bite marks across her shoulders and neck, staining what remains of her white shift. I wrap my arm around her waist, taking as much of her weight as I can. Together, we hobble away from the clearing and the grotesque ice sculpture that was once her claimer.

"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice thin and distant.

"Somewhere safe." I guide her toward a stream I spotted earlier on the Survivor's map. "We need to clean those wounds first."

The narrow creek bubbles over smooth stones, the water clear and cold. I help Flora sit on a moss-covered boulder at the water's edge and tear strips from the bottom of my shift to use as bandages.

"This might sting," I warn before dipping the first strip into the cold water.

As I clean the bite marks, Flora watches me with a strange mixture of confusion and wonder. "Why are you helping me? We're prey for them. Coming together like this, outside the havens, only puts a target on your back.”

"That's what they want us to believe." I wring out a bloody cloth and dip a fresh one. "But I refuse to play by their rules."

She winces as I press a cold cloth to a particularly deep bite on her shoulder. "You don't understand. I was bred for this—six generations of careful selection to produce the perfect omega for the courts." Her voice holds no pride, just resigned acceptance. "And I still failed. He found me wanting."

"You didn't fail," I tell her firmly. "He's the monster, not you."

Flora shakes her head, a sad smile touching her lips. "In the Hunt, there are no monsters. Only nature, red in tooth and claw." She gestures toward the distant ice spear still visible through the trees. "Though I've never seen anything like that before. The Winter Prince hasn't claimed anyone in centuries. He's never even entered rut."

"Well, he's entering something now," I mutter, securing the last improvised bandage. "And I'd rather not be around when he decides to do more than just kill his competition."

I help Flora to her feet again, steadier now after rest and basic care. "There's a haven about two miles southeast," I tell her, pointing toward a distant ridge. "Can you make it that far?"

She nods, determination replacing some of the shock in her violet eyes. "Yes. I know the markers. I can find it."

"Good." I hand her the remaining strips of cloth and what's left of my herbal supplies—barely enough for one more dose. "Take these. The herbs will help with pain and keep infection at bay."

"You're not coming with me?" Surprise colors her voice.

I shake my head, glancing northward toward the forest's heart. "No. I have another path to follow."

"The havens are safe," she argues, though without much conviction. "At least safer than out here."

"Maybe for you." I adjust my meager pack on my shoulders. "But I'm being hunted specifically. I'd just bring danger to anyone near me."

Flora studies me with new understanding. "It's you he wants. The Winter Prince."

I don't confirm or deny, but my silence is answer enough.

"Be careful, Willow," she says, using the name she believes is mine. "The Prince isn't like other alphas. He's ancient, patient. If he's broken centuries of tradition for you..." She trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air between us.

"I know." I step back, already mapping my route in my mind. "Good luck, Flora."

"And to you." She turns toward the southeast ridge, then pauses. "If you survive this, find me afterward. I want to know how the story ends."

With that, we part ways—Flora toward relative safety, me toward the greatest danger of all. As I watch her figure grow smaller among the trees, I wonder if either of us will live to tell any stories when this Hunt concludes.

My breath comes faster as I retreat, a cold certainty settling in my chest. Prince Cadeyrn isn't just protecting me or marking territory—he's transforming before my eyes from the cold, controlled royal I glimpsed at the Gathering Circle into something primal and possessive beyond court politics or Hunt traditions.

And worse, my body responds to this knowledge with a fresh rush of warmth between my thighs, inner muscles clenching around emptiness. The omega in me recognizes power and wants to submit to it, regardless of what my rational mind might choose.

"No," I whisper fiercely, forcing my feet to carry me away from the grisly display. "Not happening."

I flee through the forest, no longer concerned with stealth or false trails. Pure survival instinct drives me now, though whether I'm running from the alphas who might claim me or from my own treacherous desires becomes increasingly unclear.

The afternoon stretches endlessly, my condition deteriorating with each passing hour. The herbs from the Survivor have worn off completely, leaving me vulnerable to every sensation. The fabric of my shift feels like sandpaper against hypersensitive skin. Each breath carries scents so vivid they create images in my mind—the sweet decay of forest floor, the metallic tang of fae blood, and beneath it all, the cold, clean scent of winter magic that seems to follow me regardless of direction.

By the time the sun begins to set, I can barely maintain a straight path. My body alternates between feverish heat and strange, momentary chills that come from the Winter Court magic infecting me. The cillae have spread further up my arm, now visible whenever my neckline pulls down. They're oddly beautiful—intricate crystalline structures that glow with soft blue light when I touch them.

I stumble into a small clearing and collapse against a fallen log, my strength completely gone. The crimson moon will rise soon, accelerating my symptoms beyond any hope of control. I need shelter, somewhere to hide until the worst passes.

My reflection in a small puddle catches my attention. The glamour fails completely for several seconds, showing my true face—copper hair falling loose from its practical braid, amber eyes wide with fever-brightness, skin flushed with heat. Then Willow's appearance returns, the spell struggling to maintain itself against my body's transformation.

"What am I becoming?" I whisper to my shifting reflection.

The forest offers no answer, but the silver bracelet pulses once, sending a wave of cold relief up my arm that temporarily clears my mind. The sensation reminds me of Cadeyrn's intervention with the Huntsman—that sudden drop in temperature, the unexpected protection when I most needed it.

Is this how he tracks me? Through this connection growing between us, this magic that spreads across my skin in cillae? The thought should terrify me, but in my heat-addled state, it offers strange comfort. Someone knows exactly where I am. Someone is coming.

"No," I growl, slapping the puddle to disperse my treacherous thoughts along with my reflection. "I didn't survive eleven years in hiding to roll over for the first alpha who marks me, no matter how powerful."

I force myself to stand, to keep moving despite my body's protests. The sun sinks lower, shadows lengthening across the forest floor. I need to find shelter before full dark brings increased alpha activity. According to the Survivor's map, there should be suitable caves not far ahead—if I can maintain enough clarity to find them.

As I walk, I feel eyes on me from every direction—the forest watching, the animals observing, and somewhere beyond perception, ice-blue eyes tracking my every move. The certainty of the Winter Prince's attention should make me wary, yet I find myself standing straighter, moving with more purpose. If I'm being watched, I'll give a performance worth seeing.

"You want me," I say aloud to the silent forest, to the unseen prince I know monitors my progress. "Then come find me yourself instead of sending your magic to do the work."

The silver bracelet pulses against my wrist, almost like a response. The ice patterns glow briefly, spreading another inch up my arm as if accepting the challenge.

I continue my journey, one careful step after another, fighting against the heat that threatens to consume both body and mind. Ten days down, eleven more to survive. Each day brings me closer to freedom or to claiming—and with each passing hour, the line between those outcomes blurs in ways I never anticipated.

Whatever happens next, one thing becomes increasingly clear: the rules of this Hunt have changed. Tradition means nothing in a game where the Winter Prince slaughters his own kind to claim one omega, where the forest itself takes sides, where magic spreads across my skin like living frost.

I've entered territory uncharted by any village tales or contraband maps. All I can do now is keep moving and hope my strength lasts until I figure out what the forest—and its most dangerous alpha—truly want from me.