Page 46 of Hard Knot

"Now," I say, straightening in my chair, "shall we discuss the real rules? The ones that actually matter? Or would you prefer to continue this charade of authority?"

Because I can easily remind him of his place in this forced predicament and he won't like the consequences it'll invite.

The administrator clears his throat, shuffling his papers with trembling hands.

"Yes, well, regarding the proper protocols for pack formation?—"

My phone vibrates against the desk, the display lighting up with Felix's name. I can see the dim blare through the silk coverage. The ringtone – a pulsing techno-rock beat that Felix programmed himself – fills the heavy silence.

"We'll have to continue this another time," I say, cutting off whatever bureaucratic nonsense he was about to spew. "I have business to attend to."

"Mr. Holmesovich, with all due respect, this briefing should take precedence over?—"

"Five," I start counting, turning my chair to face the window. The leather creaks softly with the movement. "Four."

"But the protocols?—"

"Three." My voice drops lower, carrying the kind of threat that doesn't need elaboration.Unless he wants to enjoy Death Row at the hands of this “blind” Alpha."Two."

I hear his shoes squeak against the hardwood as he finally takes the hint. The door closes with a soft click just as I reach "One."

The ringtone continues – distinct from Carter's hip-hop beats that remind me of his not-so-secret past.

Carter might try to hide it now, but I remember the videos of him in underground dance competitions, moving with the kind of grace that belonged more in professional studios than dirty basement clubs. Every Friday night like clockwork, he'd disappear to some new venue, claiming it kept him sane.

I guess back then, anything kept us from shooting bullets into stupid people’s brains.

My own ringtone is normally classical piano, something that never fails to make Carter roll his eyes and call me an old soul. Rich coming from someone who thinks freestyle rap counts as poetry.

The call drops before I can answer, but seconds later my phone buzzes with a text notification. Felix only texts when there's something to see – a document, a photo, something that needs immediate attention but careful consideration.

"For fuck's sake," I mutter, reaching up to adjust my blindfold.

I pull it up just enough to expose my left eye, blinking at the sudden input of light and color. My right eye remains covered – there's nothing to see there anyway, just scar tissue and a reminder of why trust should never be given freely.

That cunt had every intention of taking all of my sight away from me. That shit will never repeat itself.

The blindfold is easier than an eyepatch.

People see a blindfold and make their own assumptions, usually concluding total blindness. An eyepatch invites questions, stories, and the kind of attention that makes marking targets more difficult.

They expect some dramatic war story, especially given my age and this sudden trend for Alphas to enter the military because that’s the only “out” if you can’t find an Omega that’s going to either scam, kill, or destroy your pockets so fast, you’d rather wish to be dead than alive and in debt thanks to some bitch who’s deeming payback.

Twenty-eight. Not even thirty and already playing at being a student again.

The irony isn't lost on me – one of the most powerful men in the Russian underground, sitting through orientation like a freshman.

Laughable doesn't begin to cover it.

But orders are orders, even when they come wrapped in the pretense of choice. The government needs us as much as we need this farce of rehabilitation. The world runs on the Alpha-Omega system, but someone needs to handle the parts of that system no one wants to acknowledge.

That's where we come in. The necessary evil. The shadow that keeps their precious light burning.

I bring the phone closer, waiting for my vision to adjust to the screen's harsh glare. My left eye has always been sensitive tosudden changes in light – a consequence of overcompensating for its blind partner.

The image slowly comes into focus, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

The Omega in the photograph commands attention with a presence that transcends the digital medium. She's caught mid-performance, her body creating lines that would make classical sculptors weep. The black bodysuit she wears reveals more than it conceals – not through vulgarity, but through the way it emphasizes every carefully controlled muscle, every graceful curve.

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