Page 21

CHAPTER 21

POV: Briar

Dawn creeps across the clearing, stripping away the darkness of shadows to reveal the stark evidence of what happened between us.

I blink against early morning light, surprised to find myself still alive, still whole—and still fundamentally changed.

The ground around the blackthorn tree has transformed overnight. Where frost-killed grass once lay, a perfect circle of wildflowers now blooms—violet and crimson and gold, their vibrant colors an impossible riot of colors so deep beneath the forest's shade.

I'm still entwined with Cadeyrn, his massive body curled around mine in an embrace that feels both possessive and strangely tender. His skin radiates warmth that contradicts everything I've heard about Winter Court fae, as if the rut has permanently altered his body in ways I don't quite understand.

My heat has calmed down significantly, and for the first time in days I can actually think. . I mentally catalog sensations across my body: the ache between my thighs, the constellation of bite marks across my shoulders and neck, the lingering fullness from hours joined with his knot. Beneath all the physical is something deeper—a presence in my mind that wasn't there before, like a silver thread connecting us even now.

Through it, I sense something that startles me, coming from him. Not just the possessiveness I would expect from an alpha, but curiosity, fascination, and a strange sort of wonder, as if he's just as surprised by our connection as I am.

It scares me more than anything I've seen so far in the Bloodmoon Forest.

I shift carefully, trying to disentangle myself without waking him up. An impossible feat.

His eyes snap open immediately, pupils black moons in a sea of ice. Fuck. They track my movements with a predatory focus that makes me freeze.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is gravel and smoke, penetrating straight to my omega hindbrain.

"I need to stretch," I reply, which isn't a lie. Every muscle in my body carries sweet, punishing testament to last night's claiming. "Let me the fuck go."

He does, surprisingly. As I finally stand, I wince at the various aches radiating through my body. My legs wobble beneath me. The evidence of our mating marks my thighs, a visceral reminder of the seed he's planted deep inside me.

The glamour spell has completely failed, leaving my copper hair spilling loose around my shoulders in wild tangles full of sticks and leaves from sleeping on the forest floor. After nearly two weeks of living as Willow, my true self feels foreign—stronger limbs, broader shoulders, skin flushed with vitality rather than pallor. I find myself touching my face, reacquainting myself with the dips and curves of my lips and cheekbones.

I find the remains of my clothing scattered across the clearing but don't bother with the thin white shift. It's been torn beyond salvaging, and besides, there seems little point in modesty after what we've shared.

"I should go," I say, eyes fixed on the tree line instead of on his naked body, still magnificent of course, damn him. "The Hunt tradition says claimed omegas get a head start."

His movements are impossibly fast. One moment he's lounging against the tree, the next he stands blocking my path, fully naked and unashamed, his cock a testament to alpha virility even in a more softened state. The memory of his body joined with mine sends an unwanted pulse of heat through my core.

"Hunt's not over," he says, voice rough with lingering rut. "Eight more days."

"You've already claimed me," I counter, gesturing to the bite mark at my neck that still throbs with each heartbeat. "I'm supposed to run, and you're supposed to go after other omegas."

His laugh is dark, almost cruel. "Fuck that. There are no other omegas for me."

I edge sideways, testing his boundaries. His eyes never leave mine, tracking my movements with predatory focus. "That's not how the Hunt works. One alpha takes multiple omegas. Multiple alphas take the same omega. That's the whole tradition."

"Those rules?" He steps closer, looming over me. "Made by courts that are dying out."

His scent—winter wind and metal, overlaid now with the musk of our mating—triggers an instant, unwanted response in my body. Warmth blooms between my thighs, my body betraying me as it has since the crimson moon rose.

Cadeyrn notices, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. He drops to one knee before me, one hand sliding up my thigh to the wetness there, the warmths of his breath ghosting my skin. His fingers brush through the mixture of his seed and my arousal, and he looks up at me with primal satisfaction.

"Still open for me," he growls, bringing those fingers to his mouth and tasting our combined essence. "As you should be."

Before I can step back, he rises and presses his mouth to mine in a bruising kiss that steals my breath. He tastes of us—of salt and sweetness and something wild.

"Those other alphas?" he murmurs against my lips. "They'd take you after me, knot you, fill you—and their rut would destroy my seed inside you. That's how it's 'supposed' to work. Their magic kills previous embryos so only the strongest takes hold."

His fingers trace along my collarbone, deliberately possessive. "Not happening. Not with you."

Cold fire follows his touch, cillae spreading across my skin in delicate whorls that match those covering his body. The magic sinks beneath the surface, becoming part of me rather than mere decoration.

"What are you doing?" I ask, though I already know. He's marking me beyond the bite—a visual warning to any alpha who might catch my scent.

"Making sure everyone knows you're mine," he says with savage intensity. His teeth find my neck again, just beside the original claiming mark, and bite down hard.

I gasp as fresh heat floods through me, my knees buckling as bonding hormones surge through my bloodstream. The bond between us flares, briefly merging our sensations—I feel his pleasure at claiming me again, his satisfaction at my response.

"I'll be the only one," he promises as he licks the new wound. "Tonight, tomorrow, for as long as you're in heat. No other alpha touches what's mine."

The dual marking—magic and fresh bite—triggers another wave of heat, stronger than I expected. My knees give way completely, and I would have fallen if not for his arms catching me. My body responds eagerly to his continued claiming.

"You can't just—" I struggle to form coherent thoughts while my biology drowns me in sensation. "The other alphas won't accept this."

"They'll learn." His canines are still elongated from rut, freshly stained with my blood. When he smiles, it's all predator. "Or they'll die."

The casual certainty with which he threatens murder should terrify me. Instead, some primal part of me—the omega I've denied for eleven years—responds with a thrill of dark satisfaction. To have an alpha so powerful, so determined to claim me exclusively...

I hate that part of myself. The blacksmith who survived through independence, who protected herself through strength and cleverness, recoils from this primitive response.

"I need to go," I insist, pulling away from his hold. "You've had me. Now I run."

His expression hardens, something vicious flickering behind eyes still dark with possession. He steps back, but only to wave his hand in a complicated gesture. Ice crystals form in the air before him, spinning and weaving together until they create a shimmering fabric that falls into his waiting palm.

"What is that?" I ask warily.

"Cover yourself," he commands, thrusting the ice-woven cloth at me. It feels like silk against my skin, impossibly light and fluid for something created from winter magic.

"I don't need?—"

"Your body is for my eyes only," he growls, wrapping the fabric around me himself when I hesitate. It settles over my nakedness like a second skin, conforming to my curves while providing modest coverage. "No other alpha gets to see what's mine."

His possessiveness should infuriate me—and part of it does—but beneath my indignation lies an unwanted flutter of... something. Not quite pleasure, not quite security, but a primitive response to being so thoroughly claimed. The omega in me, denied for so long, revels in his attention while the independent blacksmith rages against his presumption.

"Run if you want to, little blacksmith," he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork—my marked neck, my frost-patterned skin, my body now wrapped in his magic. "I'll catch you."

I take the opportunity he gives me by stepping back, slipping past him toward the forest path. I need distance to think, to process, to reclaim some shred of the independence that defined me before last night's transformation.

"Your scent carries my mark now," he calls after me, his voice carrying easily through the morning air. "Any who dare pursue you will meet their end."

I pause at the edge of the clearing, looking back at him. The morning light transforms him from last night's brutal conqueror to something equally dangerous but more complex—a being caught between civilization and primal nature, between control and chaos.

"And I will find you again," he continues, certainty lacing every word, "when the moon has risen to bathe the forest in the color of red, dark blood."

It's not a threat. It's a promise. The certainty in his voice sends shivers down my spine—not fear exactly, but recognition that traditional Hunt dynamics have been fundamentally altered between us. This isn't claiming and release, but claiming and... something else. Something new and ancient at the same time..

I don't answer, just turn and disappear into the trees, my feet finding paths with instinctive ease. The forest feels different today—more aware, more responsive to my passage. Silver leaves turn to follow my movement, branches shifting to clear my way, roots flattening beneath my bare feet. Whether this is the forest's doing or some extension of Cadeyrn's influence remains unclear.

As I put distance between myself and the clearing, I feel the claiming bond stretch like an invisible thread, connecting us. It doesn't diminish as I get further away, merely thins. Through it, I sense his satisfaction, his patience, his absolute certainty that I haven't truly escaped.

Most disturbing of all is my body's instinctive response to this connection—not rejection, but anticipation. The omega in me yearns for the alpha who broke through eleven years of carefully maintained walls.

I hate it. I hate that my body betrays me this way, that biology overrides agency so easily. Yet beneath that hatred lies something more complex—a recognition that what happened between us was more than just heat and rutting. The mind-sharing, the Wild Magic awakening through our joined bodies, the transformation of the very ground beneath us—these aren't typical aspects of omega claiming.

The Survivor's warning echoes in my mind. I reach for the small vial tucked into the waistband of the ice-fabric, its silver-blue contents catching the filtered light. "Take this after your first claiming," she'd instructed, her voice uncharacteristically urgent. "Before his seed takes root. It won't prevent what's coming, but it might keep you whole through it."

I uncork the vial and swallow the potion in one huge gulp. It slides down my throat like liquid frost, spreading outward from my core in tingling waves that momentarily overwhelm the claiming bond's pull. I'm not certain what protection it offers, but I'll take any edge in this deadly game.

Whatever this connection is, it binds us in ways that go beyond bite marks and knots. And despite my desperate need for independence, for the freedom I've fought to maintain my entire life, part of me wonders what will happen when the moon reaches its zenith and Cadeyrn finds me again.

Because he will find me. That much is certain.