Page 119 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

My sacrifice.

My gift to her.

The thought of Nyx brings a strange peace.

Even if my life ends here, trapped in this whitewashed hell, perhaps my actions helped clear her path to freedom. Other alphas might claim her, might offer the happiness and security she deserves, but I can face my end knowing I contributed to her escape.

Different hands cherish what I couldn't protect.

Another pack gives her the sense of belonging I failed to provide.

Allow death to come, knowing she might taste freedom.

Lowering my head in final surrender, I close my eyes against whatever execution approaches.

That haunting scent of vanilla and chocolate grows stronger, my mind's final torment as it conjures the omega I never truly met.

How fitting that my last thoughts center on her – on regret for words unspoken, introductions never made, connections left unexplored. Certainly, fate designed this path, keeping us apart because my death was always written in these sterile halls.

A ragged sigh escapes my lips as I fight to steady my desperate panting. The spasms in my legs have evolved into constant tremors, each wave of pain sharper than the last. But even this agony fades beneath the weight of what's coming.

At least it ends here.

Hopefully, she might live.

Something good might rise from my failure.

Gathering what courage remains, I lift my head for one final act of defiance. Let death look me in the eyes as it claims its prize.

Let my end carry some shred of dignity despite my broken body's betrayal.

But instead of an executioner's cold stare, I find myself drowning in impossible green.

What…

My heart seizes completely as I drink in the vision before me.

There she stands, barely ten feet away, chest heaving with exertion, wrapped in a shirt I'd recognize anywhere.

Atlas's favorite tactical gear hangs loose on her smaller frame, the collar carefully folded despite obvious wrinkles in the fabric.

The sight of her in my pack leader's clothing sends conflicting waves of emotion through my system – relief at knowing she's under his protection warring with something darker that tastes like jealousy.

But all thoughts of possession and pack dynamics fade as I truly look at her. The photograph I'd studied so carefully, the image that haunted me throughout this mission pales in comparison to her living presence.

Her hair falls generously past her shoulders in messy loose waves that catch the harsh fluorescent lighting, transforming ordinary illumination into something magical. The strands shift between dark forest green and ethereal magenta, creating an aurora of color that frames her face in ever-changing patterns.

Like the northern lights captured in silk.

Like magic made manifest.

But it's her eyes that steal what little breath remains in my lungs. The clinical description in her file –"green with teal undertones"– did nothing to prepare me for their reality.

They shine like ivy after rain, deep emerald bleeding into sea glass, with hints of teal that surface and fade like tide pools catching sunlight.

Those eyes hold stories I ache to read, secrets I long to unlock.

Six years of torture hover in their depths, yet they haven't lost their ability to express wonder. Even now, as she stares at me with clear recognition, I watch hope and fear wage war in those incredible irises.

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