Page 13 of Hard Knot

The words hit their mark. I can see it in the slight tightening around her eyes, though her posture remains perfect.

The way my heart picks up in pace and anger shoots through my boiling veins makes me grip the ends of the armrest to try to tame my immediate urge to rebel against such obvious foolishness.

To hold back talent like this is an insult, and it makes me wonder if it is all because she’s an Omega that she’s obtaining such belittling treatment.

No. All those females there are Omegas as well. This isn’t an Omega problem.

It’s punishment for her projecting defiance to converge into what this society wishes for her.

The other Omegas aren't even trying to hide their satisfaction now, their scents thick with vindictive pleasure. Their giggles and attempted whispers of mockery only carried through this hollow auditorium with every intention of being heard by anyone who would listen.

Including this tainted star of the show.

"While we acknowledge your skill, Miss Abercrombie, we must question whether this type of performance truly serves your primary goal — finding a suitable pack."

Finding a suitable pack?

It takes me a few seconds just to let that sink in. To acknowledge that her performance didn’t matter. Her attire, grace, and all the effort she put into every executed move. None of that shit mattered.

All because she has no pack.

Complete and utter bullshit.

I force myself to stay silent, watching as she holds her position for three measured beats before executing a textbook curtsy.

"Thank you for your feedback," she says, voice clear and steady. Then she turns and walks off stage, her steps measured and unhurried.

I watch her go, that sweet-poison scent lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Everything about her screams contradiction — classical training with street edge, technical perfection with wild abandon, sweet scent with dangerous undertones.

The kind of contradiction that could get a man killed if he went flaunting such a tainted beauty with far too much appeal.

The kind I've spent my whole life being warned about.

The type of contradiction that, despite everything I know better about, I'm already craving like my next breath.

Damn it.

I think of the paperwork Felix and Holmes are probably still wrestling with, of our plans to find a nice, safe,suitableOmega to help us convince this place we're reformed.

Then I think of that fierce grace on stage, of that perfect blend of discipline and defiance, of a scent that promises both sweetness and danger.

And my throbbing cock that’s leaking of precum that just wants to be buried deeply into this rebellious Omega’s pussy.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, rising from my seat as the next performer is announced. I hear the whispers asking who I am when my back is turned and I’m heading to the exit, but I couldn’t care less about whatever they wish to ask or say.

My body, mind, and soul are focused on one thing right now.

Sorry bros, but plans are about to change.

Behind The Curtain

~ELIZABETH~

Pain is our favorite part of this hobby of mine, isn’t it?

The locker room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows as I sit on the wooden bench, fingers trembling slightly as I unwrap the bandages from my feet.

Each layer reveals another story of dedication — or stupidity, depending on who you ask. Preparing to see the level of damage I’ve evoked upon myself feels really stupid now after that performance.

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