Page 6 of Hard Knot

"...but the attitude..."

"... an unprecedented fusion of styles..."

"...still, five years..."

The Beta judge looks up, her eyes sharp as she dissects every aspect of my presence.

"Miss Abercrombie," she says, each syllable precise as a pinprick. "Your technical execution was..." She pauses, and I can feel the other Omegas holding their breath. "...flawless."

I don't let my expression change.

Experience has taught me that praise usually comes with a sting in its tail.

"However," she continues, right on cue, "technical perfection isn't everything. An Omega must also demonstrate... appropriateness. Suitability. Your choice to incorporate such...urban elements into a classical piece shows a concerning lack of judgment."

And there it is.

The familiar knife, twisted with surgical precision. I've prepared myself for this, but it still takes everything I have to maintain my composed expression.

"While we acknowledge your skill, Miss Abercrombie, we must question whether this type of performance truly serves your primary goal – finding a suitable pack."

Poorly suppressed laughter drifts from the wings.

I keep my eyes forward, my spine straight, as she delivers the final blow.

"Perhaps if you focused more on traditional presentations, you might have better luck in that area."

Five years of rejection, wrapped up in one perfectly polite suggestion.

I hold my position for three more heartbeats, then execute a textbook curtsy.

"Thank you for your feedback," I say, making sure my voice carries clearly. I straighten, allow myself one last look at the judges, and then walk off the stage with measured steps.

I don't run.

I don't flee.

I don't give them the satisfaction of seeing me affected by their words.

The whispers follow me, but I maintain my pace until I reach the sanctuary of the dressing room.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I examine my reflection. My stage makeup has run slightly, creating dark smudges under my eyes that mirror the intricate tattoos visible through my dance clothes.

I look wild, untamed – everything an Omega isn't supposed to be.

No wonder no pack wants you…

I try to ignore the treacherous whisper that creeps into the back of my mind.

Pushing it away with practiced ease, I allow myself to take a few deep breaths.

This will pass. Next time.

Another opportunity…

I stopped caring about being wanted long ago. Or at least, that's what I tell myself as I begin to change out of my dance clothes, methodically removing all traces of my performance.

I'm wiping off the last of my makeup when the dressing room door bursts open, admitting a flood of chattering Omegas. They fall silent when they see me, their eyes sliding away as if I'm invisible.

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