Page 111 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

An unexpected kinship blooms in my chest.

Though he can't see the marks that map my own trials, if his fingers ever traced my skin, they'd find similar evidence of survival - raised scars and rough patches that speak of endless experiments and "trials."

He holds out his shirt, an explanation finally coming.

"I don't want you wearing the scent of some random alpha who isn't worthy of you."

Understanding dawns - the guard's shirt I'm wearing carries his scent, marking me with the essence of someone who contributed to my captivity.

The false claim of ownership through scent must be offensive to Atlas's alpha instincts.

"Okay," I whisper, not hesitating to strip despite our circumstances. The medical gown and stolen shirt fall away, leaving me bare for a moment before I take his offered garment. Unable to resist, I bring the fabric to my nose first, inhaling deeply.

His scent floods my senses — pine needles and leather, mountain air, and controlled power. The combination sendswaves of calm through my system, settling something restless inside me that I hadn't even realized was agitated.

Pulling it on, I find myself swimming in the excess fabric. But where the guard's shirt felt like borrowed protection, this feels like being wrapped in security itself. The warmth isn't just physical — it seeps into my bones, carrying comfort I've never known.

The oversized garment hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves falling past my fingers. Instead of feeling diminished by the size difference, I feel oddly protected. His scent surrounds me completely now, marking me in a way that speaks not of possession but of shelter.

"Better," he murmurs, reaching out to adjust the collar with surprising accuracy despite his blindness. His fingers brush my neck in the process, sending shivers down my spine.

"Now you smell like you belong to someone who values you."

The possessiveness in his tone should frighten me after years of being treated as property.

Instead, it ignites warmth in my chest. Because this isn't the clinical ownership of the lab, or the cruel dominance of the guards. This is protection freely offered and consciously accepted.

His shirt feels like armor against the world that's hurt me for so long. Each breath fills my lungs with his scent, reminding me that I'm no longer alone in this fight. No longer just Patient 495, but Nyx - an omega worth protecting, worth claiming, worth saving.

My fingers play with the hem of his shirt, marveling at how such a simple gesture -the offering of his clothing and scent- can feel so monumental. In this one act, he's given me more consideration than I've received in six years of captivity.

His hands find my waist unerringly, thumbs tracing circles through the fabric.

"Now everyone will know you're under my protection," he says softly. "That you have a pack ready to tear this place apart to keep you safe."

The promise in those words, the sheer conviction behind them, makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears. Because for the first time since entering Ravenscroft, I feel like I might have a future beyond these walls.

Like I might, finally, have somewhere -someone- to belong to.

"What are we going to do now?" I glance toward the door, reality intruding on our intimate bubble. Time hasn't paused for our connection, and every second brings new danger.

"How good are you in combat?" Atlas asks, his hands trailing my body with deliberate precision until they find the gun straps on my thighs. "And can you actually use these, or are you just enjoying looking hot with strapped weaponry?"

The unexpected playfulness in his tone startles a laugh from me. I try to smother it with my hand, but his responding smirk shows he enjoys my failed attempt at containing my amusement.

"Yes, I'm aware I can't really see, but my imagination does enjoy taunting me."

The admission sends an ache through my heart.

"I can defend myself," I say softly, then find myself wanting to give him the vision he can't have. "My hair falls past my shoulders - a dark green shade with ombre highlights of magenta when the light hits it right. My eyes..." I pause, considering their unique shade. "They're ivory green with hints of teal. I think I got them from my mother. I see those eyes in my dreams sometimes, though her face remains hidden."

Realizing how much I'm revealing, I drop my gaze to my bare feet.

"I'm pretty short, and maybe look fragile because building muscle here is difficult, but I'm strong. I can fight. I canrun." The words spill out faster now. "They've crafted me into their weapon. That's what M.U.S.E. means - Mentally insane, Unsatisfactory, Scentless, Excelled. I hate what they've made me. Hate this place..."

Catching myself drifting from physical description to deeper confessions, I wish to apologize.

“Uh…this isn’t going the way I wanted to express. Sorr?—”

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