Page 16 of Hard Knot

When I came home from Harvard in disgrace, completely broken after I got my Heat in the middle of campus and experienced one of the most traumatic moments in my life, they didn’t push me away. Didn’t shun me despite my ripped clothed appearance and all the wounds I carried on my flesh from survival mode.

They'd hugged me and gave me as much time as I needed to embrace what I was and even helped me get into Hard Knot Academy, despite my apparent “unqualified” status. Kind of funny how I originally thought this school would give me a second chance in life.

I didn’t know the truth revolving around its existence.

When I started getting tattoos, Mom had pursed her lips but said nothing. She knew I was healing from trauma, and sometimes, when she visited my room when I faked being asleep, she’d silently cry, mourning over the agony I had to face without her being there to protect me.

When I chose dance over business, Dad had just asked to see my performances, and no matter if they were flawless or not, he was the loudest one in that auditorium, cheering on his Omega daughter like my status didn’t bring him an ounce of disgrace.

To him, I could have been the lowest of the lows, and he’d lift me up, presenting me as though I was a diamond in a field of coal. If I couldn’t face a financial bind alone, he’d always step up to be there for me, even when I would be too stubborn to accept his money.

He’d just find some sort of way to get the funds to me, one way or another.

They carry their own burdens, their own regrets. But they've never made me carry mine alone.

That was one thing I could never forget about them. It was why I kept going, despite how hard it’s been as of late.

"I miss you too, Dad," I whisper, hating how my voice wavers. "Tell Mom I'll call her tomorrow, okay? After you've sobered up, though. She hates seeing you drunk."

“So…no thanksgiving?” I hate how thick that emotion of longing is in his rough voice.

My poor papa misses me so much.

"Dad," I say softly, "remember last Thanksgiving? They wouldn't even let me through the front door of La Maison."

The memory still stings — standing there in my designer dress while the maître d' explained in his perfectly polished accent that unbound Omegas weren't permitted in the establishment.

As if I might spontaneously go into heat and cause a scene between the soup and salad course.

God, how that made me laugh back then and is still pretty funny now.

None of them know I’ve been taking heat suppressants since I got my heat at eighteen on campus. I vowed after that fiascothat I’d take those bad boys until I died and always be on birth control as an added safety measure.

I may know how to fight hard, but in the off chance I can’t win a fight against a group of Alphas, at least I won’t be forced to carry an innocent baby into this world.

Born out of forced love and not out of consented admiration for creating life.

"Just invite Marissa instead,” I suggest. “The family doesn't need another embarrassing holiday with the rebellious eldest."

"No." The word comes out sharp, cutting through his drunken haze. "That girl's not a real Abercrombie. Never will be. You're my Abbie girl. The only heir that matters. Always have been."

My throat tightens suddenly, making my attempted laugh sound more like a sob.

"Sweetie?" Dad's voice sharpens with concern. "What's wrong? Do I need to come down there? I still have connections, you know? Could have that whole damn place lit up like the Fourth of July?—"

A wet laugh escapes me as I swipe at my tears.

"No, Dad. God, no. It's just..." I glance at the small bottle of suppressants in my gym bag. "Just the heat suppressants messing with my hormones. I'm fine."

He doesn't need to think I’m struggling. Even if I am, it’s not his fight to endure. I can get through this. Always have…always will.

"You sure? Because I know some guys who owe me favors?—"

"I'mfine," I insist, though my voice betrays me by cracking. "I just need to hit the showers before all the jealous bitches show up. You know how it is. Can't even wash my hair in peace without them running their mouths."

There's a long pause on the other end, filled only with the clink of ice against glass.

"You know," he says finally, his voice gentler than I've heard it in years, "you can always come home, baby girl. Your room's still exactly how you left it. All those dance trophies collecting dust..."

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