23. Morning Melody
Morning Melody
~ELIZABETH~
C onsciousness returns slowly, like wading through thick honey.
My eyelids feel heavy as I struggle to open them, each blink bringing the unfamiliar room into sharper focus. My body aches while my head feels heavy, but I decide to take one step at a time.
Starting with the primary question.
Where am I?
The thought drifts lazily through my mind as I try to piece together my surroundings. This isn't the suite James had invited me in earlier. The energy is completely different. Where that space felt like a carefully curated showroom, this room practically breathes with personality.
Warm and cool tones illuminate the room like a unique welcome.
I attempt to sit up, immediately regretting the swift movement as my head pounds in protest. A groan escapes me as I press my palm against my temple, willing the throbbing to subside.
"Fuck," I mutter, squinting against even the dim lighting.
But as my vision adjusts, I can't help but be drawn into the details of the space around me. The room manages to walk a perfect line between luxury and comfort --- like someone took all the expected trappings of wealth and softened them with actual personality.
The walls are painted a deep navy that somehow doesn't make the space feel smaller. Instead, it creates depth, making the gold and cream accents pop like stars against a midnight sky. But unlike the sterile perfection of the suite's common areas, these walls tell stories.
Carefully arranged lighting creates a cocoon of warmth despite the covered windows. Recessed fixtures cast pools of light in varying temperatures — some cool and crisp, others warm and golden. The effect should be jarring, but instead, it feels...intentional.
Like someone put serious thought into how light affects mood.
Someone who understands the importance of controlling what you can and can't see.
The blackout curtains are drawn against what must be daylight, but enough illumination seeps around the edges to confirm it's sometime during the day. The fabric looks expensive — thick enough to block out even the harshest sun, but what catches my eye is the subtle pattern woven into the material. At first glance, they look like abstract shapes, but as my vision focuses, I realize they're constellations.
The little things that make this room feel lived in...
My attention is drawn to the wall opposite the bed, where an impressive collection of medals hangs in careful arrangement. They catch the light as I study them, metal gleaming against dark wood backings.
Track medals — lots of them — speak of someone who found peace in motion, in pushing their body to its limits.
The ribbons are faded with age but clearly preserved with care. Regional championships, state finals, and even a few national placements.
But it's the shooting medals that really catch my attention.
They're more recent, their surfaces still bright and untarnished. Competition after competition, marking progression from novice to expert marksman. The categories vary — rifle, pistol, long-range — but the results are consistently impressive.
First place. First place. First place.
A collection of Polaroids fills the spaces between the medals, telling their own story in faded colors and captured moments. A young boy — couldn't be more than twelve — holds a rifle that looks too big for him, but his stance is perfect. An older man stands beside him, pride evident in his bearing despite the formal pose.
The photos progress through the years: the boy growing taller, his hold on the weapon becoming more natural, the older man's hair graying but his proud smile unchanged.
Until suddenly...he's not there anymore.
The final photo shows Holmes — and there's no mistaking him now, even without the blindfold — standing alone with his rifle.
His expression is different in this one.
Harder.
The easy confidence of youth is replaced by something more rigid, more controlled.
What happened to change him so completely?
Something about that last photo makes my chest ache. The contrast between the boy who beamed at his victories and the man who hides behind silk is stark enough to hurt.
A soft sigh escapes me as I shift my attention to the bedside table, where a ceramic bowl of water sits beside neatly stacked towels. One cloth, still damp, drapes over the bowl's edge; evidence of someone's careful attention during my fever.
The realization that someone stayed to tend to me brings heat to my cheeks that has nothing to do with a fever. Fragments of memory surface: the shower, my breakdown, Holmes finding me...
Oh God.
I told him everything.
Everything.
My hand moves unconsciously to my throat as I remember gripping his, the way he just...let me.
Didn't fight back.
Didn't try to stop me.
Just listened.
The shirt I'm wearing — definitely not mine — draws my attention as I try to process the jumbled mess of emotions coursing through me. It's soft, well-worn in that way clothes get when they're favorites, with the logo of "Precision Point Range" emblazoned across the front.
I know that place, or know of it, at least.
It's one of those elite shooting facilities that usually has a two-year waiting list just to get considered for membership. I'd looked into it back when I was researching self-defense options, but the exclusivity had seemed ridiculous at the time.
Now it makes sense.
The Holmes family name would open doors even at a place like that. Though looking at those medals, it wasn't just the name that earned him access.
The shirt smells clean but carries traces of a scent I'm starting to recognize: cedar and winter air, with undertones of gunpowder and something enriched. It's distinctively Holmes, but without the overwhelming Alpha pheromones that usually make my instincts go haywire.
He washed it first.
The realization hits unexpectedly hard.
Such a small consideration, but it speaks volumes about the man behind the carefully constructed walls.
Looking around this room — at the evidence of who Holmes was and is, at the careful balance of light and shadow, at all the little touches that make it feel like an actual sanctuary rather than just another display of wealth.
I feel like I'm seeing him clearly for the first time.
Not the cold, dismissive Alpha he pretends to be.
Something real.
With careful movements, I push myself out of bed, testing my balance before fully standing. My body aches in ways that remind me of particularly brutal dance practices, but the fever seems to have broken.
For now I guess…it wasn’t my heat then.
The en-suite bathroom continues the theme of thoughtful luxury.
Vintage oak floors stretch beneath my feet, the wood worn smooth by years of use but clearly well-maintained. Brass hardware gleams against marble countertops, and the sink's faucet a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that looks like it could have been salvaged from some grand old estate.
Everything in this house feels like it has a story.
After washing my face with cool water and borrowing a spare toothbrush I find still in its package, another considerate touch , curiosity gets the better of me.
The house beckons like a mystery waiting to be solved, and my feet carry me into the hallway before I can overthink it.
The corridor stretches in both directions, lined with what must be original hardwood and decorated with a mix of modern art and family photographs. Unlike the sterile perfection of most wealthy homes, this place feels lived in — like someone took all the expected trappings of old money and softened them with actual personality.
Modern architecture blends seamlessly with historical details — floor-to-ceiling windows letting in natural light while original crown molding adds character to the high ceilings. It's the kind of space that would feel imposing if not for all the little touches that make it feel like an actual home.
A collection of family portraits catches my eye, drawing me closer. They're arranged chronologically, telling the story of the Holmes lineage through carefully captured moments. But it's the largest portrait that makes me pause, my breath catching slightly.
Holmes' mother is stunning in a way that transcends conventional beauty. The artist captured her with remarkable skill — the subtle curve of her lips suggesting warmth beneath her aristocratic bearing.
But it's her eyes that command attention.
Holmes' eyes.
The same intense gaze, though hers hold a softness I've yet to see in her son. The artist caught something else too — a hint of mischief in her expression as if she found humor in having to sit still long enough to be immortalized in oils and canvas.
Her complexion is porcelain-perfect, but there's nothing cold about her.
Even in paint, she radiates a kind of grace that has nothing to do with her obvious wealth and everything to do with genuine compassion. The way she's posed, half-turned toward the viewer, one hand resting elegantly on the back of a chair, speaks of natural poise rather than practiced rigidity.
She looks like someone who knew how to balance sophistication with genuine warmth.
I wonder what happened to her.
The portrait's placement suggests importance, but there are no recent photos that I can see. Just this moment in time, preserved with obvious care and respect.
A sound pulls me from my contemplation — notes drifting through the air like ghosts. The melody is haunting but beautiful, drawing me forward as if pulled by invisible strings.
I follow the music downstairs, each step bringing the song into clearer focus. The path leads to a glass-enclosed space that takes my breath away.
The foyer is a masterpiece of architectural design, with walls of windows that let in natural light while maintaining privacy through clever angles and strategic placement. But it's the centerpiece that steals the show: a glass piano that seems to float in the space, its crystalline structure catching and refracting light like a prism.
And there's Holmes, seated at the instrument, his fingers moving over the keys with careful precision.
The melody is familiar, tugging at my memory until it clicks; "Remember Me" by d4vd. I'd heard it trending, the raw emotion of the lyrics capturing something universal about loss and longing.
But this version is different.
He's not just playing it; he's deconstructing it, rebuilding it piece by piece. The progression isn't smooth — he pauses occasionally, working through sections with methodical focus, as if relearning something once known by heart.
Like he's allowing himself to reconnect with something he gave up.
The glass piano makes the notes sound otherworldly, each tone crystal clear but somehow softer than traditional strings. The song takes on new meaning through the instrument, its melancholy threading through the space like silk.
I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt this private moment. There's something mesmerizing about watching someone so controlled allow themselves this vulnerability.
His posture is different at the piano; less rigid, more natural.
Like he can finally breathe.
The next thing I'm aware of is a gentle touch on my cheek, rousing me from what must have been an impromptu nap.
Standing no less…
I blink, realizing I'd dozed off right there against the doorframe, reminding me of all the times James would have to wake me up when I was far too exhausted that I could sleep standing if it was quiet enough.
An old habit from years of pushing myself past exhaustion, trying to achieve perfect control through endless practice.
How fitting to find that same drive for perfection here, translated through different keys and musical tones.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I fully wake, suddenly very aware of Holmes' proximity.
Without the blindfold, his features are striking in a way that demands attention — though not for the reasons most would assume.
I find my gaze drawn first to his left side, the undamaged half that so clearly echoes his mother's features. The same high cheekbones, the same subtle arch of a brow, even the same slight curve to his lips that suggests hidden depths beneath careful control.
Up close, the resemblance is almost startling.
Like looking at living art.
His good eye catches mine, and that perfectly arched brow lifts in silent question.
The blush deepens as I realize I've been caught not just staring, but essentially snooping through his family home.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly, dropping my gaze. "I shouldn't have wandered around without permission. It's just..." I gesture vaguely at our surroundings, searching for words that won't sound like criticism of their other residence. "This place feels so different. Warm. Like someone actually lives here instead of just existing in perfectly arranged spaces."
His expression shifts slightly — surprise maybe, or curiosity.
"I used to love exploring places like this with my mother," I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Museums, historical homes, anywhere with stories built into the walls. She'd make up elaborate tales about the people in paintings, giving them whole lives beyond their frozen moments in time."
A soft laugh escapes me at the memory.
"She had such imagination. Could spin entire novels from a single portrait. Said you could tell more about people from what they chose to preserve than what they chose to display."
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile.
"And what does this place tell you?" His voice is rough from disuse, but there's genuine interest in his tone. It’s amazing to actually strike up a conversation with him, especially when I haven’t been able to get much of a sentence in all of our prior interactions.
I consider the question seriously, looking around the light-filled space.
"That whoever lives here values authenticity over appearance. The blend of old and new, the way everything has a purpose beyond just looking expensive..." I pause, organizing my thoughts. "It feels like a home that's been allowed to evolve naturally, to collect memories instead of just possessions."
Like the opposite of what happened after Marissa arrived.
Something must show in my expression because Holmes tilts his head slightly.
"Marissa?"
I blink, not realizing I'd said the name aloud.
"My...replacement, I guess you could say." The words taste bitter, but I force them out anyway. "The perfect daughter they always wanted. Beta status, proper manners, no inconvenient academic ambitions or artistic pursuits to complicate things."
His brow furrows.
"Replacement?"
"Yeah." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the morning warmth. "Turns out having an Omega for a daughter is quite the scandal in certain circles. Better to adopt someone more...suitable. Someone who won't bring shame to the Abercrombie name."
"It shouldn't be deemed a shame," he mutters, something dark flashing in his good eye.
The words hit harder than expected, making me really think about what I'm saying. About what I've accepted as truth for so long.
"Maybe you're right," I say slowly, testing the words. "But I've never felt bold enough to go back and reclaim my place. Not that I could anyway. The rules about unclaimed Omegas are pretty clear about family contact."
A harsh laugh escapes me.
"You know what's funny? I always thought I'd find the perfect pack, march back home, and show them all that being an Omega doesn't make me less than. Like, 'Hey, look at me now! I'm claimed and cherished and everything you said I couldn't be.'"
My voice cracks slightly.
"But here I am, five years later, still the Forgotten One. Still trying to prove something to people who probably don't even think about me anymore."
The admission hangs in the air between us, heavier than intended.
I hadn't meant to dump all of this on him, especially after last night's breakdown, but something about this space — about him without the blindfold and careful distance — makes honesty feel safer than pretense.
"Sorry," I muttered, running a hand through my tangled hair. "Guess I'm still a bit fever-drunk. Saying things I shouldn't."
His hand catches mine, stopping the nervous gesture. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends electricity skittering across my skin. He doesn't say anything with words, but his gaze — the depth of emotion I can easily read — tells me I shouldn't feel ashamed of stating facts and truths.
The silence stretches between us, not exactly uncomfortable but weighted with unasked questions. Finally, I gather my courage.
"Were you the one who took care of me?" I ask softly. "This whole time?"
He nods, the gesture simple but somehow elegant.
Another blush creeps up my neck as I process this information.
It's strange, being around someone who chooses their silence so carefully.
Almost unsettling, though not in an unpleasant way.
"I used to get fevers like that a lot," I find myself saying, just to fill the quiet void. "Back in school, when I'd push myself too hard. Usually, I could catch the signs early enough to prevent a full breakdown."
I pause, a wry smile tugging at my lips as I correct myself.
"Actually, James would catch them. He always noticed when I was running myself into the ground, even when I tried to hide it. Haven't had one in so long that I guess I forgot to watch for the warning signs."
Holmes continues to watch me, his single visible eye intense in its focus.
The silence starts to feel heavy, making me shift uncomfortably.
"I have no idea what to say now," I admit, laughing nervously. "You're kind of giving me the silent treatment, and I'm not sure if I should keep babbling or just...stop."
His gaze doesn't waver, and something about the steadiness of it makes me want to squirm.
"Right. Okay." I take a small step backward. "I should probably just go back to my room and be a good little Omega until the others return. You know, practice my submissive poses or whatever it is we're supposed to do."
The attempt at humor falls flat, but I'm already turning to leave.
My bare feet shuffle against the polished floor as I move, but something makes me pause at the threshold.
"Thank you," I say quietly, glancing back over my shoulder. "For taking care of me. You didn't have to do that, but you did." I show him a glimpse of true appreciation in my eyes. “To find an Alpha willing to do that is a rarity, especially someone who doesn’t know or care about me. I appreciate that…appreciate you.”
I'm about to continue my retreat when his voice stops me, rough with disuse but clear in the morning calm.
"It's not that I want to be silent for so long."
The admission freezes me mid-step.
I turn back to find him already moving toward the piano, his movements graceful despite the obvious tension in his shoulders. His fingers trail over the ivory keys with barely enough pressure to leave fingerprints, let alone produce sound.
"It takes time," he continues, his voice low and measured, "to process things. PTSD or some stupid shit, they say. Not that I can't hear at normal speed…I do. But having it process up here..."
He taps his temple with his free hand.
"It's delayed. By the time I gather all the pieces, understand what's been said, and form a response...the conversation's usually long over. Or everyone's just staring, waiting for my opinion, and I have nothing to contribute because I either missed crucial parts or they assume I'm being deliberately difficult."
The words come slowly, each one chosen with obvious care.
It's not just about giving himself time to process — it's about making sure he says exactly what he means to say.
"Have you told anyone?" I ask softly, drawn back into the room by this unexpected vulnerability. "That this is why you stay quiet?"
He doesn't answer, his attention fixed on the keys beneath his fingers.
The silence stretches, but this time I recognize it for what it is — not dismissal or disdain, but the time he needs to fully process the question and consider his response.
In that silence, I notice more details about him.
The way his jaw works slightly like he's testing words before letting them out. The subtle tension in his shoulders that speaks of constant vigilance. The careful way he positions himself so his blind side is partially protected by the piano.
All these little tells that I missed before, too caught up in his apparent coldness to see the defense mechanisms for what they were.
Not arrogance.
Not disdain.
But protection.
A way to create space and time in a world that demands immediate responses, that judges delayed reactions as weakness or defiance. A world that has no patience for processing time, for careful consideration, for anything that doesn't fit its expected patterns of interaction.
Looking at him now, illuminated by morning light filtering through walls of glass, I wonder how many people have taken the time to truly see him. To look past the silence and the blindfold and the carefully constructed walls to the man beneath.
The man who could have stayed up all night tending my fever.
Who lets his fingers ghost over piano keys like he's remembering something precious and lost.
Who's trying, in his own careful way, to let someone else understand his point of view.
My feet carry me forward before I can overthink it, drawn to him like a moth to flame. He remains still as I approach, but I can feel his attention shift to track my movement.
When I reach his side, I hover my hand over his where it rests on the keys, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
As if reading my thoughts, he begins to play — something simple, a basic melody that repeats in gentle waves. His fingers move with deliberate grace, showing me the pattern without words.
I watch, memorizing the progression, until my own fingers itch to join in.
He adjusts slightly, making room for me on the bench without breaking the melody. When I finally lower my hand to the keys, he guides me through the motions with infinite patience. Each note becomes familiar under his silent instruction until the simple tune feels as natural as breathing.
Once he senses I've grasped the basic melody, I let my hands drift higher, finding the same progression in a lighter register. The higher notes dance above his deeper tones like sunlight on water.
What started as a simple exercise transforms into something more as our separate melodies intertwine.
The harmonies blend perfectly — his low, grounding notes provide the foundation for my lighter embellishments. We create something neither of us could achieve alone, the music filling the glass-enclosed space with unexpected beauty.
As we reach the final notes, letting them fade into the morning quiet, I find myself understanding something I never had before.
"One can't learn and be led without vulnerability," I say softly, the words feeling like a confession. "Without trust, such revelations won't become weapons. I never really got that before."
My fingers trace idle patterns on the keys as I continue.
"I was so focused on being at the top, leading the way, proving I was the best at everything. But becoming an Omega, being forced into the shadows..." I pause, organizing my thoughts. "It made me see the world from a different angle. Made me understand why they always say it takes two to tango."
I look up at him then, finding his gaze already on me.
For once, there are no walls in his expression, no careful distance maintained. He's simply present, allowing me to see him as he is.
A smile tugs at my lips as I slowly — so slowly — raise my hand.
His good eye tracks the movement, but he doesn't pull away.
Doesn't retreat behind his usual barriers.
When my fingers finally make contact with his cheek, ghosting over the scarred tissue he usually keeps hidden, his breath catches slightly, but he doesn’t flinch away from my touch.
"The blindfold is unnecessary," I whisper, letting my eyes soften as I really look at him. "You look so much more powerful like this. In this state of handsome serenity."
I accept his speechlessness, understanding now that sometimes silence says more than words ever could. When I start to withdraw my hand, his voice — raw and rough with emotion — stops me.
"Will you always hate me?"
The question hits like a physical blow, making my heart stutter in my chest.
Four simple words carry the weight of every misunderstanding between us; every moment of perceived rejection…every wall we've both built thinking they were necessary.
A frown tugs at my lips as I consider his question, trying to find the right words to express feelings I'm only just beginning to understand myself.
"I don't hate you," I say finally, meeting his gaze. "How can I hate someone I barely know?" A wry smile touches my lips. "Maybe to the world, I enjoy projecting another perception of annoyed scrutiny because it's become a form of protection I never knew I needed. To lie to the world if it means they never know the truth about my life. That usually brings me a different sense of peace, and I welcome that.”
My fingers trail lightly over his scarred cheek as I continue.
"No, I don't hate you. But if you dislike me, I understand. We never really gave each other the chance to introduce ourselves properly, did we?"
His silence feels different now — thoughtful rather than dismissive. Understanding blooms in my chest as I realize he's taking time to process my words, to form his own response.
To do this right.
A smile curves my lips as I step back slightly, extending my hand in formal greeting.
"Hi. I'm Elizabeth Abercrombie, and I'll be your temporary Omega. At least until we can all get the hell out of this joint and back to our lives outside of Knot Academy’s cruel walls."
He studies my hand for a moment before taking it in his, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"Holmes Holmesovich," he says, his voice carrying that rough edge I'm starting to find oddly appealing.
My heart flutters at the appeal of reconciliation.