Page 23

CHAPTER 23

POV: Briar

Midday sunlight bathes the forest in warmth as another wave of heat courses through me. I curl tighter beneath a blackthorn's sprawling roots, sweat dampening my skin. The break I'd hoped would follow claiming has been nowhere to be found. My body burns hotter than before, as if Cadeyrn's touch awakened something dormant rather than satisfying it.

I press my forehead against the cool earth, jaw clenched as emptiness throbs between my thighs. Each muscle contracts around nothing, tightening with painful need.

A distant cry pierces my heat-fog—distinctly human, definitely omega. My body tenses, instincts waging war within me. Hide. Run. Help.

I find myself drawn toward the sound, a moth to deadly flame. The claiming mark at my neck pulses in warning, as if Cadeyrn's magic senses I’m about to get into trouble. One more rebellion to add to my growing list of suicidal choices. At least this one isn't purely self-destructive.

I follow the sound to a small clearing and find Wren—the midwife omega—cornered against an ancient oak by a Spring Court alpha whose skin shimmers in green and gold colors. The spiral tattoos that mark her as a healer are stark against a complexion blanched with fear.

"Your knowledge of birthing makes you uniquely valuable," he's saying, voice melodic and horrifying in its gentleness. "The offspring you bear would inherit healing gifts that would strengthen our bloodlines."

"I volunteered to save another," Wren replies, her steady tone belying her trembling hands. "Not to bear spawn for the courts."

His laughter is grating. “What you wanted doesn’t matter at all. Your bloodline has been watched for generations."

I should leave. My thighs still bear evidence of Cadeyrn's claiming, my neck throbs with his bite, and my body craves another dose of whatever dark magic we've awakened between us. Interfering can only invite trouble.

And yet.

"Three against one seems like poor sport," I call out, stepping into view with more confidence than I actually feel.

The alpha turns, confusion flickering across his too-perfect face. "There are only two here, little omega. Heat has addled your counting skills."

"The forest makes three." I gesture to the silver leaves that seem to bend toward us with unusual interest. "And it's clearly taking my side."

I’m making shit up, but delivered with enough conviction that he hesitates. His nostrils flare as he scents me. Recognition dawns in his too-green eyes.

"The Winter Prince's claimed one," he says, taking an instinctive step back. "He's left a trail of mutilated alphas."

Fear is currency in the Bloodmoon Forest, and I'm suddenly wealthy.

"I'm sure there's easier prey somewhere else,” I suggest. "Unless you'd like to join the gallery of examples?"

The alpha retreats slowly, clearly cross. “The Winter Court will answer for this,” he snarls, but the threat rings hollow.

When he's gone, I find Wren studying me, her gaze lingering on the claiming mark at my neck.

"You carry his scent, and that glamour you were wearing has dissolved," she says simply. "After just one claiming. Remarkable."

"Don't read too much into it," I mutter, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "One alpha's bite doesn't make me special."

Her lips quirk in what might be a smile. "Keep telling yourself that, 'Willow.' And thank you for saving me from him, though like us all, I will be claimed one way or another.”

When she extends her hand in thanks, I hesitate before taking it. "It's Briar, actually."

"When your time comes," she says, “go to the oak with twin trunks, three days north. Not all births require court assistance."

"I'm not getting pregnant," I snap, the denial sharp even to my own ears. "I'd rather die than bear his young."

The pity in her eyes is worse than fear would be. She knows better—has delivered enough babes to recognize the inevitable when she sees it.

"Nevertheless," she continues, unfazed by my denial, "the offer stands. Some things are worth the pain of bringing them into the world."

She vanishes into the undergrowth with surprising stealth for a woman her age, leaving me alone with uncomfortable possibilities and the tender ache between my thighs. I force myself to keep moving, no longer certain of my destination, only that I must not remain still.

Last night's claiming didn't quench my heat—it amplified it. Each hour brings sharper awareness, more desperate yearning. My skin registers every whisper of air like a lover’s caress. Scents paint vivid images behind my eyelids. My inner thighs grow slick with evidence of my body's treacherous readiness.

I brace against the rough bark of a blackthorn tree as dizziness threatens to topple me. Through the fog of heat, a strange realization surfaces—I no longer want to hide completely. Part of me—the part I've denied for eleven years—wants to run precisely so he'll chase me. Wants to feel the thrill of pursuit, the exquisite tension of being hunted by something powerful enough to catch me.

The thought should horrify me. Instead, it sends another rush of warmth to my core.

The claiming bond hums between us, that unwanted connection linking me to Cadeyrn despite the distance separating us. North and east, stationary for now, but alert. Waiting. I sense his awareness of me through that invisible thread, a predatory focus that makes my stomach twist with something not entirely dread.

I step out of my hiding place, letting silver leaves brush my feverish skin. The forest responds to me, paths opening that didn't exist moments before. Twisting paths show up at my feet, ones that dodge back and forth, as if meant for prey.

A game trail. But not for deer or rabbit.

For me.

A thrill races up my spine, disturbing in its intensity. I've spent my life concealing what I am, suppressing omega instincts that might expose me. Now those same instincts surge within me, no longer content to be denied. The omega in me wants to run, to be pursued, and ultimately claimed.

"This is madness," I whisper to the listening forest.

The silver leaves rustle in response, as if laughing at me. Of course it's madness. Heat is designed to overwhelm reason.

I take off running. My blacksmith's strength propels me through the undergrowth faster than a typical omega could manage. I deliberately choose challenging routes—a stream to splash through, a fallen log to balance across, a rock face requiring actual climbing skills.

I want him to work for his prize. Want him to remember I'm not some pampered court omega bred for submission, but a blacksmith with iron in my blood.

And gods help me, I want the chase itself—the exhilaration of moving through forest and field, pushing my body to its limits while something magnificent pursues me. Heat may have awakened this craving, but it feels older than biology, more fundamental than instinct.

The claiming bond flares suddenly, alerting me that Cadeyrn has begun to move. His awareness sharpens, focuses entirely on me with an intensity that steals my breath. Through our connection, I feel his pleasure in the hunt, satisfaction at my boldness in running rather than hiding.

He's enjoying this. And despite everything, so am I.

I increase my pace, heart racing with exertion and something darker, more primal. My body responds to his pursuit with embarrassing eagerness—breasts heavy and tender, fabric chafing sensitive nipples, dampness spreading with each stride.

The forest guides my flight with subtle assistance—branches bend out of the way, roots flatten where they might trip me, undergrowth parts just enough to create passages.

The distance between us closes with alarming speed. Cadeyrn moves through the forest with inhuman grace, covering ground in mere minutes. The bond between us pulses stronger as he draws nearer. I push myself harder, determined to make this chase memorable even if it’s brief.

I've just scrambled up a steep embankment when the air around me suddenly cools. I spin around, looking for an escape, but it's already too late.

Cadeyrn stands at the base of the rise I just climbed, his transformed body outlined against the forest behind him. Since our first claiming, his changes have progressed—musculature more defined, cillae covering greater expanses of skin, his jawline sharp and prominent, as if rut has made him that much more masculine in every way.

The sight of him triggers another surge of heat through my core. My traitorous body recognizes its alpha and responds instantly, inner muscles contracting in anticipation.

"That was quick," I manage, struggling to keep my voice steady.

His smile is predatory, all sharp teeth and ancient hunger. "Did you think you could outrun me, little deceiver?" He stalks up the embankment with fluid grace, not even winded by the chase. "Or did you want to be caught?"

I retreat, maintaining distance though we both know it's futile. "Maybe I just wanted to get the fuck away from you.”

"Liar." He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. "Your arousal betrays you. The chase excited you."

Heat floods my cheeks at the truth I can't deny. "That's just biology."

"Is it?" He moves closer, each step deliberate, frost blooming beneath his bare feet. "I can distinguish between heat's demands and genuine desire. Your scent carries both."

I continue backing away until I feel something solid behind me—a flat stone surface, waist-high and radiating warmth. Glancing back, I realize I've encountered an ancient altar—moss-covered stones arranged in a pattern that vibrates with ancient purpose.

When I turn back, Cadeyrn is standing right in front of me, close enough that his winter scent overwhelms me. He raises his hand and cups it near my heated cheek, as if to stroke it, stopping just short.

"You ran beautifully," he says, voice rough with rut. "But not to escape me."

"I ran to make you chase," I admit. "I don't understand why."

"I do." His fingers finally make contact, tracing my jawline with unexpected gentleness. "The chase is as much part of the ritual as the claiming itself. The forest remembers, even when we've forgotten."

I should pull away from his touch. Should maintain the hatred that’s fed me since entering the Hunt. Instead, I find myself leaning into his hand, craving the cool relief it brings.

His free hand drops to my hip, gripping with sudden force as he lifts me effortlessly onto the stone altar. The stones seems to sing beneath me, ancient magic recognizing what's about to happen.

"Look at you," he murmurs, spreading my thighs with casual strength. "Already prepared for me."

I try to close my legs, one last token resistance. His hands clamp down on my inner thighs, holding me open with effortless power. His thumbs press into sensitive flesh, dangerously close to where I pulse with need.

"Don't fight what you want," he says, gaze fixed on the evidence of my arousal. "Your body knows its alpha."

"I'm not yours," I protest, even as my hips shift instinctively toward his touch.

"No?" He tears the flimsy fabric covering me, exposing me completely to his hungry gaze. "Then why does your body call to me? Why does your scent speak only to me?"

He sheds his own minimal clothing with savage efficiency, revealing a body transformed by rut into living sculpture. Muscle ripples beneath cillae-marked skin as he positions himself between my spread thighs. His arousal stands fully erect between us, impossibly large in the daylight—longer and thicker than should be physically possible, veins pronounced along its length, the tip flushed and engorged.

Fear flashes through me at the sight. Despite last night's claiming, I can't imagine taking something so massive again. The base hasn't fully swollen yet, but I can see the tissue already thickening, promising to expand once inside me.

"Your eyes betray you," Cadeyrn says, noticing my fixation. "Fear and desire—the perfect combination."

His hand finds my throat, establishing dominance as he leans over me. I'm pinned against the stone altar, completely at his mercy, and my eager body knows it—nipples tightening, inner muscles contracting around emptiness that demands to be filled.

I feel him pressing against me, hot and unyielding. He doesn't thrust immediately, instead sliding his cock through my slickness, the swollen head parting my folds and teasing my entrance.

"Say it," he demands, voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Tell me you want this cock inside your dripping cunt."

"I—" The words catch in my throat, pride warring with need.

His other hand tangles in my copper hair, wrenching my head back to expose my neck fully. "Say. It." Each word punctuated by slightly increased pressure, his cock-head nudging just inside before retreating. "Tell me how badly this omega pussy needs to be filled."

"I want it," I finally whisper, the admission torn from somewhere raw and honest inside me. "I want your cock to split me open. I need you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

His smile is pure alpha dominance, teeth sharp and predatory. "Listen to the filthy mouth on my little blacksmith. Open your legs wider for your alpha's cock."

He drives forward in one powerful stroke that tears a cry from my throat. The intrusion is overwhelming—his massive cock stretching me beyond what should be possible. My pussy yields to him even as my mind reels from the intensity, inner walls gripping his substantial length to pull him deeper.

"More," I gasp, the word slipping out, pulled from some primal part of me I've denied for years. My nails score his frost-marked shoulders, leaving crescents that fill with silver-blue blood. "Please."

He satisfies my plea with a groan of pure gratification and a thrust that steals the breath from my lungs.

I can't stop myself from looking down to where our bodies join—the sight is hypnotic. The base is already beginning to swell, promising to lock us together, to ensure his seed takes root deep inside me.

"Look at me while I fuck you,” he commands. "See the face of the alpha who owns this pussy."

I drag my gaze up to his face and nearly come undone. His eyes blaze with hunger, ice-blue irises barely visible around black pupils. Frost fogs the air with each panting breath. His lips pull back in a snarl that exposes elongated canines meant for marking, for claiming.

The intimacy blindsides me—being face to face, watching pleasure transform his features as his cock stretches me open. Nothing prepared me for this—for witnessing the rut-madness in his eyes, for seeing the primal satisfaction as he stakes his claim on me.

"Your cunt grips me like it was made for my cock," he growls against my ear. "So fucking tight and wet for me."

Another powerful thrust sends a fresh wave of slick coating his cock, my treacherous body preparing itself for more brutal pleasure. Each drag of his thick shaft inside me strikes places that make me sob with unwanted ecstasy. Sounds I never knew I could make spill from my lips—high, desperate cries that answer his deep growls.

His rhythm is relentless, each thrust a declaration of ownership. His hand tightens at my throat, thumb pressing against my scent gland where it pulses with need to be bitten, to be marked. His other hand bruises my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me, positioned perfectly to take everything he gives.

"Submit," he snarls, the command vibrating with alpha compulsion that makes my inner omega respond with need. "Let me hear you."

"Please," I whimper, all resistance dissolving under the onslaught of sensation. My back arches, presenting my throat in ancient omega surrender. "Alpha—more—please?—"

Words fail me as coherent thought drowns under waves of building pleasure. My thighs tremble where they're spread wide around his hips. The sounds of our joining fill the clearing—the obscene sound of his movement within me, the impact of bodies meeting, his guttural groans and my desperate cries.

It should be just biology—just alpha and omega, rut and heat, the most basic dance of dominance and submission. Yet with each powerful thrust, the bond between us pulses brighter, stronger, something ancient awakening.

When his teeth find my neck, breaking the barely-healed skin of his initial claiming bite, our minds connect with shocking clarity. The barrier between us thins as bonding hormones flood my system, memories flowing between us with greater ease than before.

I see Cadeyrn's childhood—a solemn fae infant surrounded by physicians who administer bitter medicines at the first sign of emotion. I witness centuries of isolation, of respect without warmth, of power without connection.

And he sees me—the terrified twelve-year-old hiding beneath Fergus's workbench as my first heat overwhelms me, the years of bitter herbs and iron dust to mask my scent, the deliberate cultivation of strength that no omega should possess.

The sharing deepens as pleasure builds between us. His rhythm falters as the base begins to expand, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. I feel it stretching me at my entrance, significantly larger than last night, promising fuller claiming than our first joining.

Panic flares through the haze of pleasure. "It's too big?—"

"You'll take it," he growls against my bleeding neck, driving forward with final, powerful thrust.

The knot forces past my entrance, stretching me beyond what seems possible. Pain and pleasure blur into single overwhelming sensation as it locks inside me, swelling to trap his arousal deep within my body.

Then his release begins, hot cum flooding my womb in powerful jets as the knot ensures not a drop escapes. Magic erupts through our joined bodies, not just Winter Court ice magic but something older, wilder, more fundamental. The altar beneath us hums with ancient power, moss glowing with blue-white light that pulses in rhythm with the cillae on our skin.

"Take every fucking drop," he snarls against my ear, his cock pulsing violently inside me. "Your sweet little cunt was made to be filled with my seed."

Our minds blur completely as he continues to cum, boundaries dissolving until I can't tell where my thoughts end and his begin. I feel his pleasure as if it's my own, the savage satisfaction of claiming, of breeding, of marking what he considers his. He feels my own release building, the tension coiling tighter with each hot spurt inside me.

"Mine," he growls against my ravaged neck, the primitive claim sparking my own climax with devastating force. "This pussy belongs to me now."

My body convulses around his cock, milking him for every last drop of his seed as I scream with pleasure I never wanted to feel. The rhythmic pulses of my body trigger another wave of release from him. The cycle feeds itself, each of us drawing pleasure from the other in endless feedback that’s meant to breed.

Time loses meaning as we lie joined on the altar, his weight pinning me to the stone. His knot shows no signs of receding, keeping us locked together as promised—up to an hour of enforced intimacy. The position should be uncomfortable, even painful, but some magic in the altar itself cradles us.

"You can't escape this," Cadeyrn murmurs against my throat, tongue gently tending the wound his teeth created. "What's happening between us."

I don't answer immediately, too overwhelmed by sensation and connection to form coherent words. He pulses inside me, releasing another flood of warmth that makes me gasp and tighten around him.

"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding between our bodies to circle my swollen clit. "Come on my knot again like the hungry little omega you are. Milk every drop of cum from my cock."

His skilled touch coaxes another release from my pussy with embarrassing ease. I arch beneath him, spasming around his knot in rhythmic waves that wring a guttural sound from his throat.

"Fuck, your pussy squeezes me so perfectly when you come," he groans, his cock jerking inside me as another wave of cum fills me. "I could stay buried in this sweet cunt forever, feeling how much you want me, how badly you need my body.”

When I can finally speak, my voice emerges raw from cries torn from my throat. "This doesn't change anything. I still hate what the Hunt represents."

"As do I." His admission surprises me again. "The Hunt as it exists now is corruption of something sacred. The courts have perverted its purpose for centuries."

"Then why participate?" I ask, genuinely curious despite our intimate position, despite still being joined.

"Politics. Obligation." His hand traces idle patterns on my skin, frost following his fingertips in delicate swirls. "And now... you."

The simple word shouldn't affect me as it does. I turn my face away, unwilling to let him see whatever shows in my expression.

"The chase will continue," he says after long moments of silence. “Eight more days of Hunt. But something has changed between us, whether you acknowledge it or not."

I can't deny the truth of his words, not while still joined to him, not with the bond between us growing stronger with each shared heartbeat. Whatever this is—this connection, this claiming, this ritual we've awakened—has transformed us both in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

"Tell me your name," he murmurs, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "Your real name, not the one you borrowed."

I hesitate, the request piercing through post-claiming haze with surprising clarity. Names hold power, especially with the fae. To give him my true name feels like surrendering the last piece of myself I've managed to keep separate from this madness.

"Why?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

His eyes—calmer now, the ice-blue reclaiming territory from rut-black pupils—study my face with unexpected thoughtfulness. "Because I want something of you freely given, not taken."

The irony isn't lost on me—asking for voluntary surrender while still locked inside me, his seed working deep within me. Yet something in his request resonates with whatever ancient magic we've awakened between us. The ritual demands balance.

"Briar," I whisper, the syllables feeling strange on my tongue after days of answering to another's name. "My name is Briar."

"Briar," he repeats, testing the sound, savoring the way it forms in his mouth. "A plant with sharp defenses and unexpected beauty. It suits you."

Before I can form a response, he leans down and captures my lips with his. The gentleness of it startles me more than any aggression could have. This isn't the bruising claim of an alpha in rut but something softer, almost reverent—his mouth moving against mine with deliberate tenderness that makes my chest ache with confused longing.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance. When I yield—because how can I not?—he deepens the kiss with a slow thoroughness that seems to map every secret corner of my mouth, as if memorizing the taste of my surrender.

When he finally pulls back, I'm breathing as hard as I did during the claiming itself, though for entirely different reasons. The naked vulnerability in that kiss terrifies me far more than any display of dominance.

When his knot finally recedes enough to allow us to separate, the loss feels profound despite my exhaustion. A rush of our combined fluids follows, his cum mixed with my own arousal pouring down in rivulets that coat my thighs. I should feel degraded, used, but instead experience a strange satisfaction—primal and raw—at being so thoroughly marked, my pussy sore and dripping with evidence of his possession.

Cadeyrn studies me with curious intensity as he helps me sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle against skin that will soon show bruises from his grip. "You took me better this time," he observes, something like approval warming his voice. "Your body adapts quickly."

"Don't sound so pleased about it," I mutter, though the words lack conviction. We both know the pleasure that tore through me—not just from the physical sensation but from the completion it represents, the fulfillment of something ancient and necessary.

He creates new clothing for me with a casual gesture, frost crystals spinning from his fingertips to weave into fabric that settles against my skin like liquid moonlight. The garment covers me completely yet feels more revealing than nakedness—a visible sign of his possession, his magic literally wrapped around my body.

"Tomorrow," he says as darkness deepens around us, "we do this again."

Not a question this time. A statement of fact, of inevitability. The claiming has established a rhythm that will continue throughout the Hunt's traditional duration. Each day: chase, capture, claiming. Each night: the enforced intimacy of the knot, the unexpected sharing of memories and sensations that follows.

"And if I don't run?" I ask, testing boundaries.

His smile is all teeth, predatory and confident. "You will." He traces the claiming bite on my neck, sending aftershocks of pleasure-pain radiating through me. "Just as I will chase. It's what we are now."

I watch him gather himself to leave, his transformed body magnificent even in the fading light. As he vanishes between the trees, the claiming bond stretches between us, a constant reminder of the connection we now share.

The forest watches with ancient patience as I sit alone on the altar stone, my body still humming with echoes of pleasure and the knowledge that tomorrow will bring more of the same. I should fight harder, resist more fiercely, but the truth sits heavy within me—I want the chase as much as the claiming. I crave the ritual we're creating between us.

What terrifies me most isn't what he's doing to my body, but what he's awakening in my soul.