Page 8 of Hard Knot

I shift in the auditorium's uncomfortable seat, trying to shake off both the memory and this maddening aroma that's been haunting me since I arrived at this joke of an institution.

The scent had even invaded my dreams last night, having trailed through the entire school like some signature scent. I did my best to keep my discomfort to myself for the sake of appearances but fuck. Maybe turning the smell into a confusing mess of my mother's kitchen and baking tendencies in the past would distract me from what I feel when I smell this tainted aroma.

Tame this sense of hunger from maddening my Alpha senses.

Not like an Omega can fluff my Alpha feathers.

No wonder why they call us the tainted trio. I’m sure if we weren’t powerful savages, they would enjoy pointing out our flaws and inability to be attracted to submissive pussy begging for us to claim them like prostitutes.

Begging a group of men to fuck you isn’t getting me to bow on my knees to eat you out.

The mere idea makes me cringe, forcing my aching body into protest of how tight and small this damn seat is.

Why am I even still here?

My fingers drum against the armrest as I resist the urge to loosen this suffocating tie. The uniform they've forced us into is a mockery — cheap polyester trying to masquerade as quality.

The blazer's too tight across my shoulders, the pants too short at my ankles. I won’t even get started with how it can barely fit my junk down under. Surely the rest of these Alphas have tiny cocks because there’s no way any Alpha with length is enjoying wearing these sorry excuses of attire voluntarily.

A costume for attack dogs trying to play at being pedigree.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all.

This whole arrangement must be for shits and giggles because it’s insulting to think we’ve come down to this point.

I, Carter Giovanni, heir to the Giovanni Empire who owns billions in revenue in a magnitude of businesses and organizations, stuffed into department store clothing like some corporate intern.

The watch on my wrist cost more than the entire wardrobe they provided, yet we have to be here, playing dress up when we could be aiding the dark society like we have been since our youth — by force.

But that's the point, isn't it?

To strip us of our identities: our power, grace, and opportunities.

To remind us that within these walls, our empires meannothing.

All because we won’t adhere to the rules.

Their rules.

A bunch of mediocre bullshit that shouldn’t penalize the mouth that feeds this useless hierarchy of “fake” importance.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a persistent drone that's been my only company for the past hour while Felixand Holmes deal with the mountain of paperwork this place requires. As if filling out forms somehow proves we're reformed.

As if checking boxes can erase the blood on our hands and the generations before us.

Better than the alternative though.

My jaw clenches at the thought.

Yeah, better than a cell or a bullet.

Better than ending up like…

The scent intensifies suddenly, cutting through my dark thoughts like a blade through silk. My nostrils flare, my cock tightening instinctively with a throbbing need that makes it almost hard to breathe.

Fuck…can I break a record at how fast I can get hard?

My head turns instinctively toward the stage as a voice echoes through the sound system.

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