Page 140 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

"Soon," I whisper, not quite ready to face the full weight of their attention. "How's Vale?"

Atlas's slight smile carries notes of pride at my concern for his pack brother.

"Improving. The treatments here are helping with the spasms. Having you..." he pauses, choosing words with careful precision, "Having an omega present allows access to specialized care we couldn't get before."

The implications hover unspoken between us – my presence serves some vital purpose beyond mere rescue. The facility's requirements regarding omega involvement in treatment remain unclear, but I gather it's somehow essential to Vale's chances of survival.

That means if I don’t officialize being their Omega, will they stop Vale’s treatments?

The fact he’s able to function at least in a wheelchair is already a miracle from what the nurses were whispering, stating they were so close to having to put him into a medically induced coma when he was admitted with how crazy and long his leg spasms were in length.

Questions burn on my tongue, yet exhaustion already creeps back with a familiar weight. My body's demands for rest still override my conscious desire for answers. Atlas notices immediately, easing me back against the pillows with that impossible gentleness that never fails to catch me off guard.

"Sleep," he murmurs, lips brushing my temple in a touch so light it might be imagination. "We have time."

Time.

The concept feels foreign after years of existing in carefully measured increments between trials and torments. Freedombrings its own flavour of uncertainty – endless possibilities stretching before me like unexplored territory.

But Atlas's presence offers an anchor in this sea of unknown variables. His scent wraps around me like a shield against darker thoughts, while his careful touches map boundaries of safety I'm slowly learning to trust.

The shadows stir restlessly, their silence carrying questions that mirror my own uncertainty.

What happens when this bubble of recovery bursts?

When medical necessity no longer requires Atlas's constant presence?

Will this tenderness evaporate like morning mist, leaving me once again adrift in a world that holds no place for broken omegas?

His arms tighten fractionally as if sensing the direction of my thoughts. The gesture carries reassurance without demands, and comfort without expectation. Everything about his care speaks of patience I don't quite understand – as if he's willing to wait eternities for me to find solid ground in this new reality.

Exhaustion pulls harder at my consciousness, making thoughts scatter like leaves in the autumn wind. Atlas's heartbeat provides a steady rhythm beneath my ear, its consistency more effective than any lullaby. His scent surrounds me completely — pine needles and leather creating a cocoon of safety that makes resistance to sleep's call impossible.

Just before darkness claims me completely, his humming starts – that barely-there melody that's become as essential as his presence. The tune carries notes of protection and possibility, of futures I dare not name but desperately want to believe in.

The shadows join his song with harmonic whispers, their usual warnings transformed into something approaching peace. For the first time since entering Ravenscroft's sterile halls, theirvoices carry hope rather than caution – as if they too recognize something profound in Atlas's unwavering care.

My last conscious thought centers on the strange truth that's emerged over this week of healing: I feel more omega in Atlas's arms than I ever did during Ravenscroft's endless attempts to force proper designation responses. His presence awakens instincts their experiments failed to trigger, while his patience allows space for natural emergence rather than demanded compliance.

The realization follows me into dreams, coloring unconsciousness with shades of possibility I never dared imagine during captivity. Perhaps freedom offers more than mere survival. Perhaps this alpha who holds me with such care sees beyond the scars and trauma to something worth claiming.

Perhaps the shadows know better than my conscious mind – their song carrying a prophecy of belonging I'm not yet ready to acknowledge. Their harmony follows me down into healing sleep, mixing with Atlas's gentle humming until I can no longer distinguish between the two melodies.

In this moment between waking and dreams, surrounded by pine needles and leather, I allow myself to hope. Not for grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but for small moments like this – where safety comes freely offered and care requires no payment beyond simple acceptance.

The world beyond this recovery room still holds countless uncertainties.

Questions about my future remain unanswered, while the weight of past trauma lingers like shadows at the edges of consciousness. But Atlas's presence offers the foundation for whatever comes next – solid ground upon which to build an understanding of freedom's true meaning.

His heartbeat maintains a steady rhythm beneath my ear as sleep claims final victory. The shadows fall silent, their songcomplete for now, leaving only the ghost of Atlas's humming to follow into dreams unmarked by sterile halls or endless pain.

For the first time in six years, unconsciousness comes as a gift rather than an escape.

In this alpha's arms, surrounded by his scent and steadied by his care, even dreams hold the possibility of peace.

24

A PLACE TO CALL HOME

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