Page 120 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Her face combines delicate features with harder edges forged by survival. High cheekbones and a graceful jaw speak of natural beauty, while tiny scars map constellations of endurance across her skin. Her lips, slightly parted as she catches her breath, curve with a fullness that makes my fingers itch to trace their shape.

She's smaller than I expected – delicate in a way that makes my protective instincts roar to life. But the way she holds herself, the fluid grace of her stance, reveals strength carefully contained. This is no fragile flower to be sheltered, but a warrior who's survived hell itself.

Atlas's shirt does nothing to hide the lean muscle built by years of fighting to survive, even with the obvious signs of malnutrition, stress, and sudden weight loss.

Each scar visible on her exposed skin tells its own story of torture endured and overcome. These marks don't detract from her beauty – they enhance it, proving her resilience with every silvered line.

It also makes me want to hunt any motherfucker who dared hurt her to leave an irrevisable scar in its wake.

My eyes trace the elegant column of her throat, noting the careful way she monitors her surroundings even while focused on me. Her head tilts slightly, an unconscious gesture that reminds me of Atlas processing new information.

She's cataloging everything about this moment…just as I am.

That impossible scent grows stronger as she takes a hesitant step forward. The vanilla sweetness carries darker notes now — hints of antiseptic and metal that speak of recent violence. Butunderneath lies that core of pure possibility that first drew me to her years ago.

The essence that haunted my dreams.

The aroma that made me ache with regret.

The scent that led me to break every rule to find her.

She takes another step, and I watch emotion flash across her features too quickly to catalog. Recognition wars with uncertainty, hope battles fear, and something else – something that makes her pupils dilate and her breath catch – flickers in those mesmerizing eyes.

The sight of her – alive, free, and somehow here despite impossible odds – makes my pain recede to background static.

My body's betrayal seems insignificant compared to the miracle of her presence. Even the certainty of death that gripped me moments ago fades beneath the weight of this unexpected gift.

Because she's real.

Tangible.

Present.

Not just a photograph to obsess over or a memory to haunt my dreams, but a living, breathing omega who defied everything they tried to make her. Who survived their torture, their experiments, their attempts to break her spirit.

Who now stands before me wrapped in my pack leader's shirt, staring at me with eyes that remember that long-ago autumn day. Eyes that hold recognition, understanding, and a hint of the connection I've never been able to forget.

Fate itself conspires to offer one moment of perfection before the end.

"Nyx," her name falls from my lips in a reverent whisper, making her pause mid-stride.

The recognition in her eyes transforms to wariness, her body tensing at the sound of her name from a stranger's mouth.

Racing footsteps echo through distant corridors, freezing my blood with primal fear.

Not for myself –death lost its terror long ago– but for her.

My useless legs mock every alpha instinct screaming to move, to protect, to throw her over my shoulder and race toward safety.

My muscles spasm in futile response, each tremor a brutal reminder of my body's betrayal. The knowledge cuts deeper than any physical pain – I cannot shield her from whatever approaches. Cannot prevent her recapture after she's fought so hard for freedom.

Failing her twice in one lifetime brands my soul with unforgivable shame.

First in that autumn forest, watching her disappear into captivity, and now here – a broken alpha who cannot even stand to face death protecting her.

An afterlife of eternal torment awaits.

Penance for twice failing an omega who deserved better.

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