Page 9 of Hard Knot

"Next candidate for evaluation: Elizabeth Abercrombie."

I don’t know why I’m now acknowledging that I’m no longer the only person in this vast auditorium. Wherever this overwhelming scent is coming from is powerful enough to hide the scents of all these Omega further present down at the bottom rows before the grand stage.

One glance and I can tell this must be some sort of class, but seeing the table of judges makes me wonder if this is an audition for some sort of role or event.

The lighting shifts, forcing me to anticipate whoever is being summoned to the stage. I straighten involuntarily as the summoned individual appears. The source of that maddening aroma moves into the spotlight with practiced grace and something primal in my chestgrowls.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I don’t know where to start as I take her in as a whole, my heart hammering hard against my chest like I’m about to have a fucking heart attack, racing for my life.

At least, it feels like I’ve been running for my life even though I’ve been sitting here.

She's all controlled power in that simple dance outfit — a white mesh top that does nothing to hide the artwork decorating her skin.

Tattoos.

Illegalones, if the whispers I've heard are true.

I can only assume she’s an Omega like all the other female students waiting for her to begin whatever presentation she’s about to dive into, but Omegas aren’t allowed to have a bit of ink on them.

Marks them as tainted beings undeserving of an Alpha’s touch.

That’s what the government portrays at least.

Appearances are everything for Omegas in our society, meaning they have to look like innocent angels but carry a sense of sexual appeal whereas Alphas can flaunt like a trophy won after a tedious competition of blood, sweat, and tears.

Perfection is being flawless in the eyes of our society…and tattoos do nothing to accentuate an Omegas perfection.

Except in my eyes, it’s hot as fuck.

The unique thick designs across her flesh were like secrets written in forbidden ink, disappearing beneath fabric only to emerge again in unexpected places.

Her hair catches the light — platinum blonde with an almost silvery sheen pulled back severely from a face that's more striking than pretty.

High cheekbones, full lips painted a dark red that speaks more of blood than roses. Her complexion of porcelain, so beautiful and contoured in the right places. She’s truly a beautythat can catch anyone’s attention without much effort, but it's her eyes that grab me and won't let go.

Even from this distance, I can see their intensity.

Blue, but not the soft, welcoming blue of summer skies.

No, these are the blue of deep water.

Of drowning.

She takes her position with the kind of poise that speaks of years of training, yet there's something else there. Something wild barely contained beneath the classical stance that should have been simplistic and not project a sense of defiance.

Like nitroglycerine in a crystal vase — beautiful, but one wrong move, and boom. An explosion that ruins.

Very few knew of my commitment to dancing way back when the world hadn’t polluted me with so much sin. When I had aspiring dreams like any other in my field who aspired to move their bodies with passion that captivated an entire room.

That addictive spark you chase with each catching breath, moving like the world wasn’t hyperfocused on every execution, seeking nothing but perfection.

Some days, when things are dark and depressing, I miss it.

Yet, reality forces you to acknowledge that this world doesn’t run around wishful thinking. Our world thrives on bloodshed, chaos, death, and exchanges that can either make or break you and your entire bloodline.

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