10. Blind Ambition
Blind Ambition
~HOLMES~
" L et me begin by outlining the geographical divisions of Knot Academy," the administrator says, spreading a map across my blackwood desk. This must be a distinct habit of his when it comes to laying out this hellhole of a dump because he’s obviously forgetting my predicament. "Each wing has its distinct...characteristics that must be respected."
I lean back in my custom leather chair, a masterpiece of craftsmanship that cost more than this man's house.
My office is a careful study in power projection — walls lined with first editions behind bulletproof glass, Persian rugs in deep crimson and gold, modern art pieces worth millions strategically placed to demonstrate both wealth and taste.
"The North Wing, commonly known as Death Knot, houses our more...volatile Alpha population. Access is restricted and heavily monitored." He pauses, clearly uncomfortable. "Given your background, you'll understand why we're particularly strict about weapons and unauthorized activities there."
As if your security could stop us if we wanted access.
I hold back a scuff in response because this man knows nothing about our lifestyle. All he hears is useless rumors that talk shit and don’t prove anything valuable to use against us.
"The East Wing, Savage Knot, is our training facility. Combat sports, physical education, that sort of thing. We've had some...incidents there in the past, so all matches are now supervised."
My fingers trace the intricate patterns carved into my chair's armrests as I listen.
At six-foot-five, I tower over most men even when seated. My black hair, peppered with distinguished grey at the temples, is immaculately styled — every detail calculated to project authority. I look older than I am, but I guess that’s the point in this forbidden world.
Better to look older than like a foolish youngling who can easily be prey.
Years of martial arts and military training have left me with the kind of lean muscle that speaks of lethal efficiency rather than brute force.
The brute chaos can be left for Felix, though he has dropped quite a bit of weight lately since he’s in his “cut” phase.
"The West Wing, or Ruthless Knot, handles our political science and business programs. It's where most of our...traditionally successful Alphas tend to gravitate. Just try to avoid the surrounding dorms and such. They’re not…up to your taste."
I adjust the silk blindfold covering my eyes — black, custom-made from the finest Chinese silk. Not a medical necessity, but rather a choice that serves multiple purposes.
The material is cool against my skin, a reminder of both my supposed limitation and my true power.
"And finally, the South Wing – Hard Knot. This is where you and your...associates will be stationed. It's our most diverse sector, housing everything from arts to sciences. Some consider it our most challenging environment."
"Challenging," I repeat, letting the word roll off my tongue. "Elaborate."
The administrator shifts uncomfortably. Papers rustle as he consults his notes.
"Despite your...considerable influence outside these walls, Mr. Holmesovich, there are certain limitations that must be respected within Knot Academy's premises. The South Wing in particular has strict protocols regarding Alpha-Omega interactions."
"You mean the hunting ground you've created?" The words come out soft yet the tone hits the mark it needs to hit. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending it's anything else."
"I...that's not..." he stammers.
"Continue with the rules," I say, my accent becoming more pronounced as my patience thins. "Since you seem so eager to establish boundaries."
"Yes, well...the preliminary rules for Alphas are non-negotiable. All students, regardless of their...status in the outside world, must adhere to our behavioral codes. This includes restrictions on physical altercations, territorial displays, and of course, any unauthorized claiming of Omegas."
All of which you overlook when the price is right.
"I've taken the liberty of having all your course materials specially bound," he adds, his voice taking on that particularly grating tone people use when they think they're being considerate. "The raised lettering should make it easier for you to?—"
"Did I say I was blind?" My voice cuts through the room like a blade through silk.
"I...well, we heard through the grapevine that—" he stammers, clearly thrown off balance.
"Perhaps," I interrupt, allowing a hint of amusement to color my tone, "you could have done what any competent administrative Alpha would do and conducted a proper background check. Or does your renowned attention to detail only extend to creating elaborate excuses for the atrocities you allow in your 'challenging environment'?"
The silence that follows is delicious — thick with embarrassment and fear.
"The assumption that a blindfold indicates complete blindness is not only presumptuous but potentially treacherous," I continue, my Russian accent growing heavier with each word. "Much like assuming your position here grants you any real authority over me.”
I pause on purpose, knowing my next words are about to prove a very drastic point of the “power” I have over this dump.
“Tell me, how is the academy's funding this quarter? Still relying on my family's...generous contributions?"
I can smell his fear spike, his Alpha pheromones souring with anxiety. He knows as well as I do that his entire operation hangs by a thread — my thread.
"Now," I say, straightening in my chair, "shall we discuss the real rules? The ones that actually matter? Or would you prefer to continue this charade of authority?"
Because I can easily remind him of his place in this forced predicament and he won't like the consequences it'll invite.
The administrator clears his throat, shuffling his papers with trembling hands.
"Yes, well, regarding the proper protocols for pack formation?—"
My phone vibrates against the desk, the display lighting up with Felix's name. I can see the dim blare through the silk coverage. The ringtone – a pulsing techno-rock beat that Felix programmed himself – fills the heavy silence.
"We'll have to continue this another time," I say, cutting off whatever bureaucratic nonsense he was about to spew. "I have business to attend to."
"Mr. Holmesovich, with all due respect, this briefing should take precedence over?—"
"Five," I start counting, turning my chair to face the window. The leather creaks softly with the movement. "Four."
"But the protocols?—"
"Three." My voice drops lower, carrying the kind of threat that doesn't need elaboration. Unless he wants to enjoy Death Row at the hands of this “blind” Alpha. "Two."
I hear his shoes squeak against the hardwood as he finally takes the hint. The door closes with a soft click just as I reach "One."
The ringtone continues – distinct from Carter's hip-hop beats that remind me of his not-so-secret past.
Carter might try to hide it now, but I remember the videos of him in underground dance competitions, moving with the kind of grace that belonged more in professional studios than dirty basement clubs. Every Friday night like clockwork, he'd disappear to some new venue, claiming it kept him sane.
I guess back then, anything kept us from shooting bullets into stupid people’s brains.
My own ringtone is normally classical piano, something that never fails to make Carter roll his eyes and call me an old soul. Rich coming from someone who thinks freestyle rap counts as poetry.
The call drops before I can answer, but seconds later my phone buzzes with a text notification. Felix only texts when there's something to see – a document, a photo, something that needs immediate attention but careful consideration.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, reaching up to adjust my blindfold.
I pull it up just enough to expose my left eye, blinking at the sudden input of light and color. My right eye remains covered – there's nothing to see there anyway, just scar tissue and a reminder of why trust should never be given freely.
That cunt had every intention of taking all of my sight away from me. That shit will never repeat itself.
The blindfold is easier than an eyepatch.
People see a blindfold and make their own assumptions, usually concluding total blindness. An eyepatch invites questions, stories, and the kind of attention that makes marking targets more difficult.
They expect some dramatic war story, especially given my age and this sudden trend for Alphas to enter the military because that’s the only “out” if you can’t find an Omega that’s going to either scam, kill, or destroy your pockets so fast, you’d rather wish to be dead than alive and in debt thanks to some bitch who’s deeming payback.
Twenty-eight. Not even thirty and already playing at being a student again.
The irony isn't lost on me – one of the most powerful men in the Russian underground, sitting through orientation like a freshman.
Laughable doesn't begin to cover it.
But orders are orders, even when they come wrapped in the pretense of choice. The government needs us as much as we need this farce of rehabilitation. The world runs on the Alpha-Omega system, but someone needs to handle the parts of that system no one wants to acknowledge.
That's where we come in. The necessary evil. The shadow that keeps their precious light burning.
I bring the phone closer, waiting for my vision to adjust to the screen's harsh glare. My left eye has always been sensitive to sudden changes in light – a consequence of overcompensating for its blind partner.
The image slowly comes into focus, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
The Omega in the photograph commands attention with a presence that transcends the digital medium. She's caught mid-performance, her body creating lines that would make classical sculptors weep. The black bodysuit she wears reveals more than it conceals – not through vulgarity, but through the way it emphasizes every carefully controlled muscle, every graceful curve.
My eye is drawn first to the artwork adorning her left arm. It's not the crude scratches that most forbidden tattoos become, but a masterpiece of intricate designs.
Roses twist around skulls in a dance of life and death, each petal and hollow eye socket rendered with the kind of detail that speaks of hours under the needle. The artist must have had serious connections – this kind of work on an Omega would have cost more than money.
It would have to be in a place of hiding not easily accessible to the public either.
A larger piece on her upper left thigh catches my attention next – visible where her bodysuit has ridden up during what appears to be a particularly ambitious ballet move. The skull there is different – more stylized, almost celebratory in its design.
It reminds me of Día de los Muertos artwork, though there's something else to it that suggests it holds deeper meaning than mere decoration. At least, if an Omega is going through the underground and potentially risking her life to be inked up, then the tattoo better be worth the investment.
She's balanced on the tips of her toes, her body frozen in a moment of perfect tension. Her platinum blonde hair fans out around her like a halo, caught in that fraction of a second between movement and stillness. Physics itself seems to bend around her as if even gravity must ask permission before affecting her.
Her face is a study in contrasts.
Despite minimal makeup, her skin appears flawless – the kind of perfection that comes from good genes rather than careful cosmetics. But those lips...they're painted a shade of red so dark it mimics freshly spilled blood.
It's a deliberate choice, I realize – a warning wrapped in an invitation.
Beautiful but deadly. Like a poison flower.
But it's her eyes that make me pause, that make something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.
They're dark in the photo – almost black in this lighting – but it's not their color that arrests my attention. It's the power behind them, the sheer force of will that radiates from her gaze.
I've seen that look before – in mirrors, in the eyes of revolutionaries, in those rare individuals who would rather burn than bow.
This is no ordinary Omega seeking protection or status. This is a warrior who's chosen to dance instead of wielding a sword, but whose every movement speaks of barely contained defiance.
A rebel .
I can’t stop myself from labeling her that, studying the way she holds herself.
One who would sooner shatter than submit.
It forces me to wonder if she could submit to a group like us. To someone like me who’s far more fucked up in the head compared to the others. I can spy fake from a mile away, but this Omega looks like the real deal.
Tainted with trauma, bruised with endless challenges and torment…and yet, if I contributed to her suffering, would she cower in defeat? Or rise to the occasion and defy me in ways that madden my entire livelihood.
The taunting thought makes my cock twitch. Something I haven’t experienced in a long ass time. Carter and Felix can get Omegas whenever they need a fix, but me. I don’t get turned on that easily at all.
I’m too frightening for Omegas to take a chance.
The reminder makes me smirk and let out a soft chuckle, while I feel a hint of resolve knowing things are going to repeat themselves. All I need to do is have five minutes with this Omega and she’ll break down and cry, submitting to my order and leaving this place hoping to never cross paths again.
They’re all the same.
I’m sure if Felix is on the trail with this woman, that means Carter likes her. He always falls hard at first, but if he met this Omega when we were signing papers, it’s more serious than I’d like to think. He doesn’t entertain women when he’s tired or sober.
He was both today, which means this Omega flicked something in him.
The screen suddenly illuminates with Felix's incoming call, his custom ringtone breaking through my analysis. But I can't tear my eye away from the image, from this enigma of an Omega who dares to wear her rebellion like armor.
What game are you playing, Felix?
If he’s sending me this picture, it’s not because he’s found a potential target. No, this is different. This feels calculated — precise.
This is the Omega he actually wants us to take as ours…and he’s pickier than me.
He wouldn’t waste my time otherwise.
Felix is many things, but frivolous isn't one of them. This operation isn't just about finding any Omega – we have more pressing concerns than satisfying governmental quotas.
This will either lead to our salvation or our destruction and knowing our luck, probably both.
I press the accept button, putting the call on speaker.
"Get to the point."
"The Omega and Carter are on their way to the mansion," Felix says without preamble. That gives me pause. Carter, bringing an Omega to our territory without discussion?
That's...unexpected.
Before I can voice my concerns, Felix continues.
"You need to understand her current living situation. Elizabeth Abercrombie, twenty-two years old, five-foot-seven. Primary focuses are dance and fitness, specializing in ballet, but also proficient in kickboxing, cycling, swimming, and bare-knuckle fighting."
Interesting combination.
"Despite her outcast status, she's exceptionally intelligent," Felix adds.
"Define exceptional."
"Perfect scores across the board. Harvard dropout, but not due to academic performance. She was top of her class before..." He trails off meaningfully.
“Before?”
"The courtyard incident?" Felix admits. “She went into Heat it seems amid the courtyard. I tried to find more but it seems like everything has been wiped.”
Omega Heats without a pack can be life and death in some scenarios, but dealing with that at one of the busiest universities around far too many Alphas to count…
What happened to her?
"Look into her family connections," I say, though knowing Felix, he's already done exactly that if not more.
A low chuckle interrupts my thought.
"Check your email. You'll find the Abercrombie family...fascinating."
"You're already on site, aren't you?"
"Fifteen minutes out," he confirms. “I’ll check into the gates any minute now.”
I huff out a laugh.
"Always a step ahead, aren't you?"
"Someone has to be."
After ending the call, I pull up my encrypted email. Felix's report is comprehensive, as always – detailed dossiers on every member of the Abercrombie family. But it's her father's file that catches my attention.
Well, well. What do we have here?
Behind the facade of a simple janitor lies a complex web of underground connections. Cage fighting, drug distribution networks, and – most intriguingly – intellectual property theft disguised as maintenance work. The man's brilliance lies in his ability to appear completely unremarkable while orchestrating some of the most sophisticated operations I've seen.
Like father, like daughter, perhaps?
But there's something else – a name that appears in her emergency contacts from when she was sixteen. Jessie. The entry is sparse, almost suspiciously so, as if the information has been deliberately scrubbed.
I frown, making a mental note to investigate further. Felix is thorough, but even he can't find information that's been professionally erased.
And this...this feels like more than just standard record cleaning.
What happened to Jessie? What was your association with this Elizabeth? What role did you play in befriending the Omega who dances with such beautiful defiance?
To anyone else, they wouldn’t have thought about such a minor detail to be vitally important, but I know the way Felix works in his detailed analysis. When whoever is in or was in one’s life doesn’t have a full profile document created by Felix, it means they were “erased”.
Meaning, the person themselves or someone else in control of that person wants to ensure they’re kept in the shadows of the unknown rather than be re-discovered.
The pieces are starting to form a pattern in my mind, but it's not complete.
Not yet.
And if there's one thing I've learned in my years of strategic planning, it's that incomplete patterns can be more life-changing than obvious threats.
Either way, I’m prepared to test this Omega out.
Carter and Felix aren’t hard to win over, but me?
I’m one to never cower to an Omega.