Page 18

CHAPTER 18

POV: Briar

A twig snaps in the darkness.

I freeze mid-step, my sensing sharpening toward the sound. Not accidental—too deliberate, too precisely timed. A message, not a mistake.

I'm being watched.

The crimson moon hangs bloated and obscene above the forest canopy, its bloodred light filtering through silver leaves to paint everything in shades of violence. The heat that's been building inside me all day has reached a fevered peak, my skin hypersensitive to even the slightest brush of fabric or breeze.

"I know you're there," I say into the darkness, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the chaos raging within my body. "You might as well show yourself."

Silence answers me—the unnatural quiet of a forest holding its breath. Even the night insects have gone still, as though afraid to draw attention from whatever lurks in the shadows. The silver bracelet pulses against my wrist, cillae spreading beneath my sleeve as if responding to some unseen presence.

I've felt eyes on me for hours—watching, assessing, following my every move with predatory patience. At first, I thought it might be another alpha drawn by my increasingly potent scent. But this feels different. More focused. More deliberate.

I move carefully between moonlit trees, each step placed with care despite the distracting warmth pooling in my core. The forest floor whispers beneath my boots, silver-edged leaves crackling. I'm not trying to flee—not really. Part of me wants to confront whatever stalks me through this endless night.

A shadow shifts between distant trunks—too fluid to be natural, too graceful to be human. I turn sharply, catching the briefest glimpse before it melts back into darkness.

My breath catches in my throat.

Prince Cadeyrn has changed.

The fae royal I glimpsed at the Gathering Circle—all cold beauty and aristocratic restraint—has transformed into something else entirely. His lean frame has filled out dramatically, powerful muscles straining against what little clothing he still wears. Moonlight catches on bare skin that seems to glow with inner light, the marble pallor of Winter Court now warmed to something almost alive.

But it's his face that stops my heart. Those perfect features have sharpened, cheekbones more pronounced, jaw more defined. His hair, once smoothly bound, now falls in a wild tumble around shoulders that have broadened impossibly in the days since the Hunt began. And his eyes—gods, his eyes—ice-blue irises nearly consumed by dilated pupils that fix on me with hungry intensity.

The Winter Prince has entered rut.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. Seven centuries of perfect control, of legendary restraint that made him immune to omega influence—shattered. By what? By whom?

By me?

The forest whispers confirmation as he moves again, circling my position with predatory grace. Ice trails from his fingertips like living extensions of his will, frost blooming on vegetation wherever he passes. His movements hold barely restrained violence, the coiled tension of a predator preparing to strike.

Every rational instinct screams at me to run, to use the forest paths and hiding places that have kept me safe so far. But my body betrays me with visceral response—warmth gathering between my thighs, skin flushing with want that has nothing to do with my rational mind and everything to do with the omega nature I've denied for eleven years.

I back away slowly, maintaining eye contact with the shadow stalking me through the trees. "Stay back," I warn, though my voice lacks conviction. "I don't belong to you or any alpha."

A laugh tears from his throat, raw and savage. "Look at you," he growls, the refined court accent stripped from his voice, replaced by something primal. "Standing there, pretending you don't feel it too."

When he steps into a shaft of crimson moonlight, I see him fully for the first time since the Gathering Circle. The transformation is more dramatic than I'd first realized. Where once he projected cold detachment, now raw power emanates from him in palpable waves. The simple tunic he wears—torn at shoulder and collar—reveals cillae identical to those spreading across my skin, glowing with the same blue-white light.

“Ten days," he snarls, circling closer. “Ten days of your scent in my blood like a fever. Ten days killing anyone who dares look at what's mine." His teeth gleam sharp in the moonlight. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me, little omega?"

I should be terrified. I should be running. Instead, I stand my ground, some deeper instinct overriding both fear and training. "I didn't do anything to you."

"Liar." The word cuts through the night. "You've ruined me. Centuries of control—gone. My power, my position, my immortality—all compromised because I can't get the scent of you out of my head." His hands clench at his sides, ice crystals forming in the air around him. "I should hate you for it."

The cillae on my skin pulse in time with my racing heart. "You've been marking me," I accuse, pushing back my sleeve to reveal the crystalline patterns spreading up my arm. "Claiming me without touching me."

"Yes." No denial, no justification. Just raw admission that sends an unwelcome thrill down my spine. "Every alpha in this forest needs to know you're mine, even if I haven't taken you. Yet."

That single word—yet—hangs between us, laden with dark promise.

He takes another step closer, moonlight illuminating him completely. I can see now how his transformation extends beyond the surface—his skin bears strange runes, glowing the same blue-white as the cillae. Power emanates from him in waves I can almost see, bending reality around his presence.

"You've killed for me," I say, remembering the brutalized alpha bodies I've found throughout the forest. "Arranged them as warnings."

"I've torn apart anyone who dared think they could have you." No remorse colors his voice, only savage satisfaction. "And I'll do it again. As many times as necessary."

Our eyes lock across the clearing, something electric passing between us. My body responds to his presence with shameful eagerness—heat flaring, muscles tensing with anticipation, every nerve ending heightened. The omega in me recognizes this alpha as compatible, as worthy, as mine.

"Why me?" I demand, fighting through the haze of biological imperative. "There are dozens of omegas in this forest. Why focus on one?"

His lips curl back from his teeth in something too feral to be called a smile. "Because you're the only one who matters." He moves closer, each step deliberate. "I saw through your little deception from the first moment. Copper hair. Amber eyes. The strength in your stance—no proper omega stands like that."

Each description feels like fingers trailing across my skin. "You have no idea how much I resent it—being brought to my knees by an omega playing dress-up in another's clothes."

The forest stirs around us, silver leaves rustling with secrets passed from branch to branch. I become aware of a subtle shift—the woods are conspiring with him, paths closing behind me while opening before him, herding me toward some inevitable confrontation.

"You're manipulating the forest," I accuse.

"I'm not the only one," he counters, eyes narrowing. "It responds to you too. To us together. Something in our blood calls to older magic than the courts can control." His voice drops lower. "They told me rut was a weakness—that it would age me, diminish my power. They lied. I've never felt stronger, never seen more clearly."

I take a deliberate step sideways, testing his claim. Sure enough, branches shift to block my path, while clearing the way toward him.

"This isn't fair," I say, frustration building.

"Fair?" He laughs again, the sound scraping along my nerves like a blade. "Was it fair when you walked into that circle wearing another's face but carrying a scent that's burned itself into my dreams? Was it fair when you looked me in the eye like no omega has dared for centuries?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "The Hunt was never fair. But neither is this... craving you've infected me with."

Another step brings him closer, close enough that I can catch his scent—winter wind and metal and musk that makes my knees weaken with want. I retreat automatically, back pressing against a tree trunk that wasn't there moments before.

"You're afraid," he says, nostrils flaring as he scents my fear beneath the heavy perfume of heat. "Good. You should be."

"And why is that?" I manage, fighting to maintain clarity as heat surges through me the closer he gets.

"Because I'm going to claim you." The simple declaration carries absolute certainty. "Not tonight. Not until you're ready to admit what we both know—that you want this as much as I do." His eyes rake over me, leaving heat in their wake. "But make no mistake, little deceiver. This ends only one way."

The words should infuriate me, should trigger every defensive instinct I've honed through years of hiding what I am. Instead, they send a treacherous thrill through my core, the omega in me responding to his dominance with visceral need.

"I've spent my life avoiding alphas like you," I say, chin lifting in defiance that costs me dearly. "What makes you think I'll surrender now?"

"Because I'm nothing like the alphas you've avoided." He's close enough now that I can feel the cold emanating from his skin—not the lifeless chill of winter, but the potent, tingling frost of raw magic. "And because what’s growing between us has nothing to do with surrender and everything to do with fate.”

A branch breaks beneath my foot as I try to maintain distance between us. His head turns sharply at the sound, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. His pupils expand further, nearly eliminating the ice-blue iris.

"Your heat is growing stronger,” he says, voice dropping to something rough and primal. "Soon you won't be able to run anymore."

He's right. Each heartbeat brings a fresh wave of desperate need, my body burning from within as the moon's influence pushes my heat to unbearable intensity. Between my thighs, dampness makes movement uncomfortable, fabric clinging to oversensitive skin with every step.

"I didn't survive eleven years in hiding to become breeding stock for any alpha, even a prince," I say, though the weakness in my voice betrays me.

"Breeding stock?" He snarls, genuinely angry now. "If that's all I wanted, I could have claimed any omega in this forest." Ice crystals form around his clenched fists, spreading up his forearms in patterns that match those on my skin exactly. "Seven centuries I've resisted rut, maintained control while other alphas succumbed to base instinct. I've watched generations of my line age and weaken because they couldn't master their biology."

His voice drops lower, rougher. "And then you appeared, and it was like being struck by lightning. Everything they warned me about—the loss of control, the primal hunger, the obsessive need to claim—all of it descended at once." His next words emerge as if torn from somewhere deep inside. "Do you have any idea how much I hate myself for wanting you? How much I resent this power you have over me?"

For the first time, I glimpse something beyond the predator stalking me through endless night—a being caught in a transformation as dramatic and unwanted as my own. The realization creates unexpected sympathy within me, even as I curse his name.

“Then let me go," I suggest, seizing on this moment of vulnerability. "We both fight what's happening. Let's continue that fight separately."

His laugh is bitter, edged with resignation. "Too late for that." He gestures to the matching cillae on our skin. "Whatever this is between us, it's already begun. The claiming will happen—the only question is when."

I want to deny his words, to reject the implication that some force beyond our control draws us together. But the evidence spreads across my skin in glowing testimony even I can’t ignore.

Our eyes lock across the clearing, something electric passing through the air. He makes no move to close the final distance between us, though every line of his body communicates how much the restraint costs him.

"What happens now?" I ask, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

His eyes burn into mine, hunger and resentment warring in their depths. "Now the Hunt continues. You run. I follow." His voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries perfectly to my ears. "But know this, copper-haired deceiver—every step you take only makes my eventual claiming sweeter."

The threat—or promise—in his words strikes some primal chord within me. Not just omega responding to alpha command, but prey acknowledging worthy predator. For the first time since entering the Bloodmoon Forest, I feel something beyond fear or determination.

Anticipation.

My hand finds the iron token in my pocket, thumb tracing its protective runes. "And if I fight you?"

His smile is all teeth, elongated canines catching the moonlight. "Then I'll enjoy subduing you." He steps back, deliberately creating distance between us. "Run now, little omega. Use whatever tricks you've learned to delay the inevitable. It changes nothing."

With that, he melts back into the forest shadows. I can still feel him at the edges of my awareness—a predator granting temporary reprieve.

I release a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, my legs finally giving way as I slide down the trunk of the tree behind me. The heat that built during our confrontation ebbs slightly, though it remains a constant throb of need beneath my skin.

The Winter Prince has entered rut, apparently for the first time in his immortal existence, and the experience has stripped away centuries of civilization to reveal something ancient and untamed beneath. More shocking still is the realization that I've somehow caused this transformation—that something in my blood or scent or being has awakened what seven centuries of Hunt participation couldn't touch.

I should feel terror at the power stalking me through these endless woods. I should use every skill and trick I possess to evade his pursuit. Instead, treacherous curiosity winds through my fear—a dangerous fascination with the being who sees me, truly sees me, beneath all disguises.

"Not tonight," I whisper to myself, echoing his promise as I gather my strength to continue. "But soon."

The confrontation approaches—inevitable as the crimson moon's cycle. Not a question of if, but when and how the Winter Prince will finally claim his chosen prey. The most disturbing realization of all is how increasingly uncertain I am about whether I'll fight that claiming when it comes.

The forest watches silently as I push myself to my feet and continue my journey, the crimson moon overhead bearing witness.