Page 136 of Hard Knot

I think about Jessie, about all the others who've disappeared into the system's cracks, about how easily I could have been one of them.

"Marcus left after that?" I ask softly.

Holmes nods, his eye still fixed on the highlighted passage, having absentmindedly turned back to the page once more.

"Couldn't blame him. Watching Vivian parade around, acting entitled to a position she didn't understand or respect...it was too much. Especially after what happened to Jessica"

Jessica? The young Omega…could that have been Jessie?

I feel like it’s not my place to ask.

"What happened to Vivian?" I find myself asking instead, though part of me already suspects the answer.

His jaw tightens slightly.

"Victoria happened. When Vivian couldn't secure her position, Victoria decided to try her luck. She's been...persistent."

The bitterness in his tone speaks volumes about just how "persistent" she's been. I think about her dyed platinum hair, her desperate attempts to claim Holmes' attention, her willingness to do anything to secure her position.

Even if it means destroying her own sister's chances.

"That's why she hates me so much," I realized aloud. "I'm not just competition. I'm a reminder that neither of them succeeded in claiming you."

Holmes finally looks at me, his expression unreadable.

"You're nothing like them," he says quietly. "You don't pretend to be something you're not. Even when it would be easier to play along, to be the perfect, submissive Omega they want you to be...you stay true to yourself."

Heat rushes to my cheeks at the unexpected praise.

"Maybe I'm just too stubborn to pretend," I mutter, trying to lighten the moment.

His lips curve slightly.

"Maybe that's exactly what makes you different."

The words hang between us, heavy with implication. I find myself studying him again — the way morning light plays across his features, the careful way he handles his beloved books, the depth of understanding in his single visible eye.

"What happened to Vivian?" I ask softly, unable to contain my curiosity.

"She died," he says with a shrug that seems almost relieved, but then his expression darkens. "Though not before she decided to leave me with a permanent reminder of what happens when you reject a Sinclair."

I frown as the pieces click into place, my eyes drawn inevitably to his injured side. The scar that marks his faceisn't random or accidental — its symmetry speaks of deliberate intent, of careful planning, of rage channeled into precise violence.

Looking at it now, I can see the methodical nature of the wound.

No jagged edges or uneven lines that would suggest a moment of chaos.

This was calculated, designed to leave a lasting mark.

"She didn't," I whisper, horror creeping into my voice as understanding dawns.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a haunting approximation of a smile as he stares straight ahead.

"Think of it this way," he says, his voice carrying that careful measure I'm learning to recognize. "When your family tells you you're going to be with a specific person, that you're going to meet their expectations, appease them in every way, become their Omega because that's the only path to success in their bloodline...what happens when that privilege, that dream you've been force-fed since childhood, is suddenly stripped away?"

The question hangs heavy in the air between us.

I consider it seriously, thinking about my own experiences with family expectations.

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