Page 12 of Hard Knot

Her scent spikes with the intensity of her movement, that intoxicating blend of sweetness and danger growing stronger. It's making it hard to think clearly, stirring something primitive in my chest.

"And every day that I get older. I guess my blood's running colder..."

The music builds toward its climax, and I find myself holding my breath along with everyone else. She's preparing for somethingbig — I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the focused determination in her eyes.

"She'll never land it," a voice declares with smug certainty. "Even Marina Collins needed ten years to master that sequence."

I don't know who Marina Collins is, but from the reverent way the name is whispered, she must be some kind of legend here.

The kind of benchmark others measure themselves against.

"What have you done, my rabbit run!"

She begins a series of turns that seem to defy physics — fouettés, a word I haven’t heard in so many years but seems to pop into my mind in this instance. Each rotation is faster than the last, her form perfect, her focus absolute.

I don’t dare pull my eyes away, afraid one blink could make me miss the signature move she’s attempting to achieve.

The music reaches its crescendo, and suddenly she's in the air, her body splitting into a perfect line before landing and melding into a hip-hop freeze that somehow manages to look both classical and street at the same time.

"So say my name like I'm 10 feet tall! Bow your head like I'm royal!"

The silence that follows is deafening.

Even the whispers have stopped.

For a moment, all I can hear is my own heartbeat and the fading echoes of the music, leaving me to realize for thefirst time since my youth, I’m truly left speechless in awe of a performance.

Never have I seen such grace…talent…beauty…ever.

Until today, no other Omega could ever gauge a reaction from me on this tier of amazement. The entire performance was beyond outstanding.

This should be life-changing for her.

Within my mind, I’m actually rooting for her, a stranger who isn’t even aware of my existence, let alone know my name.

She holds her final pose with unwavering control, not a single muscle trembling despite what must be exhaustion. Then, with deliberate grace, she rises into first position.

The center judge, a stern-looking Beta with steel-gray hair, taps her red pen against her scoring sheet. I’m sure their objective is to show a sense of mutual unamuse, but after such a defying performance, I’m disappointed they can’t show a glimpse of slack.

The sound seems unnaturally loud in the hushed auditorium.

"Well," she says, voice carrying clearly. "That was...unexpected."

I watch Elizabeth's face, looking for any sign of reaction.

There isn't one.

Her expression remains as controlled as her breathing, though I can smell the spike of... something in her scent.

Not fear. Not exactly. More like resignation mixed with defiance.

"Miss Abercrombie," the judge continues, each word precise as a knife cut. "Your technical execution was..." She pauses, and I feel the tension in the room ratchet up. "...flawless."

Of course, it was.Anyone with eyes could see that.

"However.” There it is, the knife about to twist. "Technical perfection isn't everything. An Omega must also demonstrate... appropriateness. Suitability. Your choice to incorporatesuch...urban elements into a classical piece shows a concerning lack of judgment."

Has she lost her fucking mind?

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