Page 86 of Hard Knot

I'm halfway through paragraph six of the Thanksgiving acknowledgment — a particularly verbose section about how staying on campus during holidays is "for my own protection" — when a voice cuts through my concentration.

"Elizabeth Abercrombie?"

The accent catches me off guard first; crisp and professional with just a hint of something Eastern European. Then the scent hits me — subtle but distinctive, like fresh jasmine and rain-washed concrete. It's an Omega's scent, but there's something different about it.

Something that makes my instincts perk up and take notice.

I turn in my chair, curious despite myself.

The woman standing in the doorway is striking in a way that transcends conventional beauty. She's tall and slender, with an elegant posture that speaks of years of professional training. Her hair falls in perfectly styled waves, dyed a deep purple that should look unprofessional but somehow adds to her authority. Wire-rimmed glasses perch on her nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent light as she studies me.

But it's her presence that really throws me. She radiates confidence — not the fake bravado most Omegas try to project, but genuine self-assurance that fills the room like a physical force. It's almost overwhelming, making me question my initial assessment of her designation.

How can an Omega command space like this?

"Yes?" I reply, suddenly aware that I've been staring. "That's me."

Her lips curve into a small smile as she steps fully into the office, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. Every movement is precisely controlled, purposeful.

"I can move," I offer quickly, gathering my papers. "I'm just finishing up these forms-"

She waves off my words with an elegant gesture. "No need. I was actually looking for you." Her head tilts slightly as she regards me. "Someone mentioned you'd be here. They seemed quite certain you were in trouble."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

"At nine in the morning? I try to save my rebellious moments for after lunch at least." I shrug, adding, "But I'll take a rain check on the trouble. It's been a busy start to the week."

The woman's smirk widens slightly, a knowing look crossing her features.

"These insecure Omegas," she says, her tone carrying a hint of dry amusement, "they do love to play their little games, don't they? Always assuming the worst, always ready to tear down anyone who doesn't fit their narrow view of what an Omega should be."

Her words hit close to home, resonating with years of experienced prejudice and isolation.

"They certainly keep themselves busy," I agree, studying her more carefully now. Her suit is impeccably tailored — charcoal grey with subtle pinstripes that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. A single pendant hangs at her throat, catching the light when she moves. Everything about her screams power and control, from her perfectly manicured nails to her stance that somehow manages to be both relaxed and commanding.

"It's refreshing," she continues, "to meet someone who understands the game for what it is." Her eyes flick to the papers in front of me, taking in the familiar headers. "Though I see you're still playing by some of their rules."

I glance down at the forms — the annual reminder of my "special status" within the academy's hierarchy.

"Some battles aren't worth fighting," I say carefully, though a part of me bristles at having to justify my choices to a stranger, even one who seems to understand more than most.

She makes a noncommittal sound, moving closer to examine the documents.

"Your father taught you well," she observes, nodding at my careful notations in the margins. "Not many would take the time to actually read what they're signing."

The casual mention of my father sets off warning bells. It's not exactly public knowledge that he's the one who taught me to dissect contracts, and this woman suddenly seems to know more than she should.

My posture stiffens slightly, defenses rising.

"You seem to know a lot about me."

"I make it my business to know things," she replies simply, meeting my gaze with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But I hold firm, refusing to show weakness. Her smile widens fractionally as if my resistance pleases her. "Especially about Omegas who refuse to be broken by this system."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I'm reminded suddenly of the first rule my father ever taught me.

"If something seems too perfect, too tailored to your desires, it's probably a trap."

But there's something genuine about this woman, despite the carefully constructed facade of perfection. Maybe it's the wayher scent carries no trace of deception, or how her confidence doesn't waver even under scrutiny.

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