Page 47 of Hard Knot

My eye is drawn first to the artwork adorning her left arm. It's not the crude scratches that most forbidden tattoos become, but a masterpiece of intricate designs.

Roses twist around skulls in a dance of life and death, each petal and hollow eye socket rendered with the kind of detail that speaks of hours under the needle. The artist must have had serious connections – this kind of work on an Omega would have cost more than money.

It would have to be in a place of hiding not easily accessible to the public either.

A larger piece on her upper left thigh catches my attention next – visible where her bodysuit has ridden up during what appears to be a particularly ambitious ballet move. The skull there is different – more stylized, almost celebratory in its design.

It reminds me of Día de los Muertos artwork, though there's something else to it that suggests it holds deeper meaning than mere decoration. At least, if an Omega is going through the underground and potentially risking her life to be inked up, then the tattoo better be worth the investment.

She's balanced on the tips of her toes, her body frozen in a moment of perfect tension. Her platinum blonde hair fansout around her like a halo, caught in that fraction of a second between movement and stillness. Physics itself seems to bend around her as if even gravity must ask permission before affecting her.

Her face is a study in contrasts.

Despite minimal makeup, her skin appears flawless – the kind of perfection that comes from good genes rather than careful cosmetics. But those lips...they're painted a shade of red so dark it mimics freshly spilled blood.

It's a deliberate choice, I realize – a warning wrapped in an invitation.

Beautiful but deadly. Like a poison flower.

But it's her eyes that make me pause, that make something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.

They're dark in the photo – almost black in this lighting – but it's not their color that arrests my attention. It's the power behind them, the sheer force of will that radiates from her gaze.

I've seen that look before – in mirrors, in the eyes of revolutionaries, in those rare individuals who would rather burn than bow.

This is no ordinary Omega seeking protection or status. This is a warrior who's chosen to dance instead of wielding a sword, but whose every movement speaks of barely contained defiance.

A rebel.

I can’t stop myself from labeling her that, studying the way she holds herself.

One who would sooner shatter than submit.

It forces me to wonder if she could submit to a group like us. To someone like me who’s far more fucked up in the head compared to the others. I can spy fake from a mile away, but this Omega looks like the real deal.

Tainted with trauma, bruised with endless challenges and torment…and yet, if I contributed to her suffering, would shecower in defeat? Or rise to the occasion and defy me in ways that madden my entire livelihood.

The taunting thought makes my cock twitch. Something I haven’t experienced in a long ass time. Carter and Felix can get Omegas whenever they need a fix, but me. I don’t get turned on that easily at all.

I’m too frightening for Omegas to take a chance.

The reminder makes me smirk and let out a soft chuckle, while I feel a hint of resolve knowing things are going to repeat themselves. All I need to do is have five minutes with this Omega and she’ll break down and cry, submitting to my order and leaving this place hoping to never cross paths again.

They’re all the same.

I’m sure if Felix is on the trail with this woman, that means Carter likes her.He always falls hard at first, but if he met this Omega when we were signing papers, it’s more serious than I’d like to think.He doesn’t entertain women when he’s tired or sober.

He was both today, which means this Omega flicked something in him.

The screen suddenly illuminates with Felix's incoming call, his custom ringtone breaking through my analysis. But I can't tear my eye away from the image, from this enigma of an Omega who dares to wear her rebellion like armor.

What game are you playing, Felix?

If he’s sending me this picture, it’s not because he’s found a potential target. No, this is different. This feels calculated — precise.

This is the Omega he actually wants us to take as ours…and he’s pickier than me.

He wouldn’t waste my time otherwise.

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