Page 5 of Hard Knot

Five years to build up my armor, to transform their cruelty into motivation. I pour their spite into my movements as I begin the routine's final sequence.

The music builds to its crescendo, strings, and bass battling for dominance just like the two sides of my nature – the classical training and the street-learned swagger.

My breath comes in controlled bursts as I prepare for the final combination.

"She'll never land it," someone says with quiet certainty. "Even Marina Collins needed ten years to master that sequence."

They're right about one thing – only one other Omega has ever successfully performed this combination in the academy's history.

It's a sequence that demands everything: perfect timing, absolute control, and just enough madness to attempt it in the first place. The best part is making sure it hits on the lyrics’ final repetition.

“What have you done, my rabbit run!”

I begin the fouettés en tournant, each rotation faster than the last. My spot is perfect, my core locked tight as I whip through turn after turn. The final repetition of lyrics blares loudly into the echoing space, pounding in my head as if the very lyrics speak to me.

“So say my name like I’m 10 feet tall! Bow your head like I’m royal!”

The music reaches its peak, and I launch into the final element – a grand jeté that seems to defy gravity, my body perfectly splits in the air, before I land and melt into a hip-hop freeze that marries classical grace with urban power.

“And every day that I get older. I guess my blood’s running colder…”

The silence that follows is absolute.

I hold the pose, feeling a single drop of sweat trace down my spine. My heart thunders against my ribs, but my breathing remains steady.

I don't move until the last note fades from the air.

Perfection.

Rising into first position, I meet the center judge's gaze.

She's a Beta with steel-gray hair and lips pressed into a thin line. Her red pen taps against her scoring sheet in a rhythm that matches my pulse.

"Well," she says, her voice carrying in the hushed room. "That was...unexpected."

I maintain my position, keeping my expression carefully neutral despite my trembling muscles. I've put everything into this performance – every ounce of anger, determination, and defiance I've accumulated over five years of rejection.

The whispers start again, but now they carry a note of grudging respect mixed with their usual disdain.

"How did she even learn that sequence?"

"Probably spent all her sad, lonely nights practicing. What else does she have to do?"

"Still won't help her find a pack. Who wants an Omega that...intense?"

I keep my chin lifted, my posture perfect.

Let them talk. Nothing I do or say will meet their standards. They’ll always look at me like the ugly duckling I am. All because I’m a forgotten omega.

At the end of the day, I didn't perform for them.

I didn't even perform for the judges.

This was for me – proof that being unclaimed doesn't mean being broken.

I catch fragments of the judges' murmured conversation:

"...technical perfection..."

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