Page 16 of Knot What She Seems
If they don’t fear you, then have them hate you. Is there really a difference between the two?
Jameson smirks and fiddles with the whistle around his neck. “You’re an asshole, Kylian. You know that, right?”
“If you mean I have a good one, then you’ll be right.” I clap his shoulder again before stepping away.
Just before I can disappear around the corner of the school, the high-pitched screech of a whistle rends the air. “All right, boys! You heard the man. One hundred burpee tuck jumps. Now!”
I chuckle and continue on my merry way.
Almost against my will, my gaze slides toward Darling Academy, separated from our school by a hedge and wall. I’ve only been to the omega school once before—back when I was a student here instead of an instructor—and it reminded me of something you would see in a fairy-tale book. Everything was new and shiny and sparkly and nauseatingly perfect.
If Darling is supposed to mirror a fairy castle, Eros Academy is designed to mimic a villain’s fortress. Square black stone towers thrust up into the sky. Even though arrows were abandoned centuries ago except for sport, the upper floors are sprinkled with slits for them. The lower floors boast stained glass scenes of violence.
Meanwhile, more modern weapons dot the lawn. Tanks. Machine guns. All of the mechanical killing machines that alphas have invented throughout the centuries.
There are no working fountains here, and the shrubbery is not carved into animals. Function trumps form, and the scent of machine oil is everywhere.
The contrast between the two campuses is as stark as the contrast between alphas and omegas.
I remember the one ball I attended at Darling Academy. Usually, they host these events once a month, but my pack always came up with an excuse why we couldn’t attend.
Okay, maybe “excuse” is too strong of a word.
Mostly, we had Colter glare at the headmaster until he agreed to let us skip it.
But we attended one ball, near the end of our term at the academy, in the hopes of finding an omega to call our own. We’ve given up hope of ever finding our scent match—those are immensely rare as it is—so we thought we could settle for a sweet omega who wouldn’t shy away from our issues.
What a fucking disaster that ended up being.
For years, I was upset by the prospect. I grew up with a mother and four fathers who loved each other intensely. I wanted that for myself, for my pack. But over time, reality warped that hope into resentment that then morphed into a grim sort of understanding. It’s not as if we can bring an omega into our lives, anyway. With our jobs, she’ll be dead in weeks, unless we make her stay home by herself.
And that doesn’t sit well with me either.
I kick at a loose pebble as bitterness blossoms in my chest.
Okay, maybe I lied before. Maybe I am still slightly resentful over the fact that our pack is too damn scary to hold down an omega.
A curt, strident voice on the other side of the wall captures my attention. I have to bite down on my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud.
How old is Madam Ellora by now? Five hundred? I swear that woman is immortal.
“Shoulders back! Back straight! Tummy in!” she calls. “Harper, perfect!” And then, sharper, “Brylee! No! You’re doing it all wrong! Start again!”
This time, I can’t keep my chuckles quiet, and a few of them slip free unbidden. Fortunately, I’m still far enough away that no one can hear me.
God, is this all the omegas have to deal with?Walking? These pampered princesses wouldn’t survive a day at Eros Academy.
Grinning from ear to ear, I move forward, desperately wishing there wasn’t a hedge and wall separating me from the omegas. I could really use a show.
“Piper, you’re doing amazing. Perfect posture, Alanna!” A beat and then, “Brylee! No! No! No! You’re a lady, not a duck! Walk like one!”
I smother my laughter with my hand.
And that’s when it hits me.
The sweetest scent I’ve ever smelled in my life teases my nostrils. It reminds me of apple pie—fruity, with the barest hints of cinnamon. My cock immediately hardens in my pants.
What the fuck?
