Page 58 of Hard Knot

"Nah, my money's on her."

It makes me smirk with anticipation.

We head further into the massive space until I lead them straight to a room down the end of the hall.

"I'm surprised you found his office so quickly," Felix remarks as we approach the end of yet another pristine hallway.

I gesture dramatically to the only black door in the entire wing, adorned with "HOLMES" written in elaborate golden cursive that probably cost more than my annual dance budget.

"Well shit, I wouldn't have guessed who this belongs to," I deadpan, making Carter snicker uncontrollably while Felix tries and fails to hide the smirk playing at his lips, adjusting his glasses in what I'm starting to recognize as a nervous habit.

"Well, let's get this over with," I announce, reaching for the ornate golden doorknob.

"Maybe knock first—" Felix suggests, but I'm already turning the handle.

"Why? Is he that pretentious about?—"

"He might be in a meeting—" Carter starts to warn, but we all freeze at the scene before us.

A dark-haired woman in what has to be a designer dress has her perfectly manicured fingers jabbing into the chest of who can only be Holmes, having apparently just broken what looked like quite an intense kiss.

Well then…what a nice ‘welcome to my office’ greeting.

"I don't care if the other two hate my guts," she's saying, her tone dripping with determination. Her voice carries the kind of entitled confidence that makes my skin crawl. "I will be the Omega your pack chooses."

The awkward tableau gives me a moment to really take in Holmes himself, and...holy shit.

He's wearing what I instantly recognize as a Tom Ford O'Connor suit in the deepest shade of charcoal I've ever seen.

The cut is immaculate, clearly tailored to his impressive frame with the kind of precision that screams money and power. The fabric alone probably costs more than my entire academy wardrobe, and the way it sits on his broad shoulders makes it clear why Tom Ford is considered the king of menswear.

His crisp white dress shirt provides a stark contrast, and his tie—a subtle pattern in shades of gray and black—is clearly Hermès. The look is completed by highly polished Oxford shoes that I'd bet my life are John Lobb.

Everything about his appearance is calculated to project authority and refined taste, down to the platinum cufflinks catching the light.

But it's his physical presence that truly commands attention. He has to be at least 6'5", with the kind of lean muscle that speaks of martial arts training rather than gym rat dedication. His black hair is styled in that perfectly imperfect way that probably took an hour to achieve, with distinguished touches ofgray at his temples that make him look sophisticated rather than aged.

A light stubble graces his strong jawline, carefully maintained at that perfect length between rugged and refined. His features are aristocratic—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips that would be almost pretty if they weren't set in such a stern line.

What catches me completely off guard, though, is the black silk blindfold covering his eyes. It's clearly custom-made, probably from the finest Chinese silk available, and sits against his skin like a shadow. The contrast against his pale complexion is striking, making him look like some kind of modern-day warrior martial arts master who’s in a meditation state.

Minus the whole crossed-leg yoga pose.

The whole effect is both intimidating and impossibly elegant, like someone took all the danger of an apex predator and wrapped it in the finest packaging money could buy.

Is he actually blind?

The thought hits me suddenly, making me reassess everything about the room's layout and the way he carries himself. But something about his posture, the way he seems perfectly aware of everything around him, makes me wonder if there's more to the story.

Not to mention this type of house doesn’t benefit one who has absent sight. No modifications or anything.

Even if it was hidden, there would still be hints here and there, and I’m observant enough to catch those in my initial scan of this place during our unexpected tour.

The silence stretches, heavy with tension, as we all stand frozen in this unexpected moment of collision.

My attention reluctantly shifts to the brunette, and I can't help but do a mental inventory of what I'm up against.

Her curves are excessive in that way that screams "designer body"—the kind you purchase rather than earn through hard work. Her breasts strain against her designer dress in a way that defies physics, and I find myself tilting my head slightly as I take in what has to be one of the most obvious BBLs I've ever seen.

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