Page 139 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

What alpha would willingly claim an omega so thoroughly broken by endless experiments?

The shadows stir at the edges of my consciousness, their silence carrying notes of uncertainty rather than their usual warnings. Their return gives me an odd sense of relief, despite the implications that their presence contributes to the idea of my sanity going to hell.

After everything I’ve been through, if the company of these voices means I’m labeled crazy, so be it. They’re a part of menow, their presence, warning, and hymns of loss and praise have helped me survive milestones I never expected to experience and achieve.

Even they seem unsure of my path forward in this world of freedom that feels more foreign than familiar.

My fingers trace the bandages wrapped around my torso, mapping the extent of injuries I can barely remember receiving. The bullet wound throbs with dull persistence, a constant reminder of how close death came to claiming its prize.

The medical staff speaks in hushed tones about miracle recoveries and inexplicable survival, but I remember nothing after collapsing in the forest.

Only fragments surface through the fog of trauma – strong arms catching my fall, desperate voices calling my name, the taste of borrowed breath forcing life back into unwilling lungs. The details blur together like watercolors left in the rain, creating impressionist paintings of memories I can't quite grasp.

I guess it doesn’t matter because, in the end, I’m alive.

I’ll recover. Heal. Carry the scars that are left behind, both physically and mentally from Ravenscroft’s captivity.

Atlas shifts beside me, his breathing pattern changing subtly as he senses my return to consciousness. His arm tightens fractionally around my waist, careful to avoid the worst of my injuries while still maintaining that grounding contact I've come to crave.

"Water?" His voice carries that particular gentleness reserved for these quiet moments between sleep and full awareness.

I manage a small nod, grateful when he doesn't immediately move to help me sit up. These first moments after waking often leave me dizzy and disoriented, my body requiring time to remember it's no longer in Ravenscroft's sterile halls.

It’s also a relief that he’s somehow managing to acknowledge my silent gestures. I know it’s a bit selfish, testing his other senses when I could just voice my concerns, but he told me he doesn’t like when people try to compensate for his obvious disability. Some are thoughtful, especially those who’ve known him the longest, but most do it almost disrespectfully.

As if to diminish his worth.

His patience speaks volumes about how well he's learned to read my needs over this past week. Where the facility's staff demanded immediate responses and compliance, Atlas offers the gift of time – allowing me to set the pace of each small interaction.

The shadows hum with approval, their song carrying notes of acceptance I've never heard before. They recognize something in his care that transcends mere alpha protectiveness or clinical observation.

This is different from the forced attentiveness of assigned guards or the cold efficiency of medical staff.

When I finally feel steady enough to attempt sitting, his support comes with practiced grace. One arm slides beneath my shoulders while the other maintains perfect balance, helping me rise without placing undue strain on healing wounds. The movement still pulls uncomfortably at stitches, but the pain remains manageable – more reminder than true agony.

The water he offers comes in small sips, his control preventing the greed my parched throat demands. I've learned this lesson over the past week – too much too quickly leads to nausea and setbacks.

His careful rationing protects me from my own desperate needs.

"Better?" The question comes pitched low, intimate in the pre-dawn quiet of what I've learned is a private medical suite.

The facility –Astrological Holmes Medical Center according to the logo adorning every surface– caters to a very specific clientele. The security rivals military installations, while the staff maintains discretion that borders on the invisible unless directly summoned.

I've gathered that Atlas's pack holds significant influence here, though the details remain carefully vague. I can only assume that’s the case, though they enjoy calling me Miss Blackwood as if I’m the reason they all have employment or something.

"Yes," my voice comes rough from disuse, but the single word carries genuine gratitude. These small moments of care still feel surreal – acts of tenderness freely given without expectation of payment or submission.

His thumb traces gentle patterns against my shoulder, the touch grounding me in present reality rather than memories of clinical restraints. Every point of contact between us radiates careful consideration – calculated to comfort rather than confine.

"The others want to visit," he mentions casually, though I catch the slight tension in his frame. "Only when you're ready."

The others.

His pack.

The alphas who helped orchestrate my escape yet remain mostly mysterious presences hovering at the edges of my awareness. I've caught glimpses during brief periods of consciousness – Kieran's worried frown as he checks monitoring equipment, Dante's quick efficiency changing bandages, Vale's quiet presence from the wheelchair he currently requires.

But direct interaction remains limited as if they're allowing me time to adjust to freedom before adding the complexity of pack dynamics. Their consideration touches something deepinside, awakening omega instincts I thought were permanently destroyed by Ravenscroft's experiments.

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