Page 147 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, as he leaned back on the porch swing. The chains creaked softly, the only noise besides the faint rustling of leaves.

“We could’ve had that,” he admitted, his voice carrying a note of humor. “Hell, there are a few we technically own. But flashy shit’s unnecessary.”

I tilted my head, intrigued.

“Why not? Most people with your resources would want to show it off.”

“Most people haven’t lived the kind of lives we have.” His tone grew quieter, thoughtful. “Money doesn’t fix what’s broken inside you. At best, it buys comfort. At worst, it becomes a way to distract yourself from what really matters.”

“And what matters to you?” I asked, my fingers brushing the edge of the quilt draped over my lap.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Memories,” he said finally. “When everything else is stripped away, that’s all you have left. Good ones. Bad ones. They shape you.”

I waited, sensing there was more.

“This place?” He gestured around us. “It’s ours because we built it together, for each other. When we each lost some part of ourselves — me with my eyes, Dante’s hearing, Kieran’s heartache, Vale’s body — it became clear that money wasn’t the solution. It’s just a tool. This house isn’t about showing the world we’ve got wealth. It’s about showing ourselves we’ve got stability.”

I bit my lip, struggling to find words that wouldn’t sound trite.

“And you’ve built that stability here?”

“We’re working on it,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It wasn’t perfect before,” he confessesbefore his wrapped gaze meets my calm eyes. “But now…I think we solved the missing piece in that tier of perfection.”

That moment lingeredin my mind as I stirred awake from my nap. I stretched, the oversized white shirt of his that I’d borrowed sliding down one shoulder. The late afternoon sun poured through the windows, casting the room in hues of amber and gold. My gaze shifted to the balcony, where I caught sight of Atlas standing quietly, his silhouette framed by the soft light.

He isn’t wearing his blindfold.

It struck me as odd, though I’d never questioned why he wore it in the first place. Something about prying into his vulnerability felt wrong, even if curiosity whispered incessantly in my ear, but to see it absent felt like some new task had been unlocked, desperate to be explored.

Sliding my feet to the floor, I moved toward the balcony. My steps were slow, deliberate—enough for him to hear me approach. Blind or not, I didn’t want to startle him. The last thing I wanted was to disturb the rare serenity that seemed to envelop him in this moment.

As I neared, I noticed the subtle tilt of his head, as he obviously senses my approach. It’s been nice with it just being us here. Sure, the others have come by from time to time, as if to give me some moments with us as twos and threes.

All four of them haven’t been in one space yet, and it could be to their intention of not overwhelming me. I’m thankful for it, but at the same time, I feel after today, I’d want to start sharing experiences with the four of them around.

My breath catches at the sight before me. Atlas stands bathed in dying sunlight, water droplets still clinging to broad shoulders that speak of strength carefully contained. The towel rides lowon his hips, revealing a tapestry of scars that map stories of survival across tanned skin.

The shadows stir with appreciation, their song carrying notes of admiration for this alpha who dares show such vulnerability. No weapons, no tactical gear, no carefully maintained barriers – just raw truth written in the way he faces the setting sun despite damaged vision.

Something about his posture makes my heart clench with unexpected emotion.

He seems both impossibly strong and achingly vulnerable, the dichotomy creating an urge to protect that catches me completely off guard. The absence of his usual blindfold feels significant – as if he's offering a glimpse behind carefully maintained defenses.

A lump forms in my throat as realization strikes deeper.

Three days.

Just three days of shared moments and gentle discoveries, yet Atlas has become as essential as breathing. Every small interaction builds something profound between us – from morning coffee shared in comfortable silence to evening conversations that stretch until exhaustion claims victory.

The shadows whisper understanding of my growing panic. They recognize the fear that grips my chest – fear of losing this connection before it fully forms, the fright taunting the idea of returning to sterile halls before truly experiencing all this Alpha offers.

Fear of time slipping away before I can properly understand the true potential between an Alpha and Omega…

Two weeks. The deadline hovers at the edges of consciousness, marking days until a choice must be made. Stay or return. Accept pack bonds or face familiar torment. The decision should be simple given the stark contrast between options, yet anxiety still claws at my chest.

What if Ravenscroft doesn’t keep to their word? That there’s some underlying ploy to get back at the men that saved me from that ongoing cycle of agony and torment. It can’t be that easy to escape their clutches without consequences…right?

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