Page 131 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

The way her lips part on the final exhale.

How her body goes rigid rather than pliant.

The scent of her blood mixed with gunpowder and fear.

My legs carry me forward as dormant instincts roar to full awakening, demanding action to prevent this third taste of devastating fear from becoming a permanent loss.

The alpha instincts, I thought forever silenced, seem to release their howls with renewed purpose, refusing to watch another death without attempting intervention.

Compared to the past, where this isn't watching deserved vengeance claim its due or witnessing a disease's inexorable march, I realize how such a vibrant possibility is being extinguished before it has a chance to fully ignite.

To have a chance to spread its wings and fly.

The potential pack bond severed before it can properly form.

The distance between us seems infinite though logic says it spans mere yards. My legs pump faster, pushing through swirling gas as her body begins its graceful arc backward. Every alpha instinct screams to move quicker, to defy physics itself if necessary to reach her before impact.

Time crystallizes into perfect clarity as I launch forward, arms outstretched to catch her falling form. The moment stretches like honey dripping from a comb – slow enough to catch every detail yet impossible to alter.

My hands find purpose just before she strikes the earth, cradling her head and shoulders while her knees make brutal impact against the rough woody surface of the earth.

The force rocks through my body, but I maintain my grip as if she's made of precious glass.

Settling her across my lap reveals the devastating truth – her eyes remain open but the light within begins to fade like stars dimming at dawn.

Up close, details assault my enhanced senses with cruel precision:

The exact pattern of freckles across her nose – constellations mapping untold stories. The small scar at the corner of her jaw was a silvered testament to survival. The way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat, each beat growing fainter. How young she looks despite years of evident hardship carved into her features.

Blood soaks through Atlas's shirt where it clings to her side, the stain spreading with terrifying speed across black fabric.

Her body holds unnatural rigidity rather than expected limpness, muscles locked in a position that speaks of something beyond a simple wound.

Was she shot by a mere bullet? Or was it laced with something more to finally take her out?

The scent of her –pure sweetness layered with complexity I can't begin to decode because the brewing fear of losing her– mingles with a copper tang of injury.

Even dying, she calls to something primal in my nature, awakening protective instincts I thought forever buried beneath betrayal's scar tissue.

“C’mon,” I urge desperately as I fight to shake her. “Stay with us," the words scrape raw from my throat as I press a desperate hand against the flowing wound. "You hear me, little one? Stay. We’re going to get you somewhere safe. Mend you up. You’ll never have to return here again, but you can’t fade away. You hear me?"

I don’t know why it sounds like I’m begging her. I can’t even comprehend why tears begin to come to my eyes as if I’ve known this woman my entire life.

My tears for the Omega that shattered my heart weren’t invoked by sadness. It was triggered by the freedom her death seemed to deliver me, despite this marking clinging to my flesh like a haunting wound with no intention of healing.

Atlas's shirt beneath my fingers grows increasingly saturated as I cradle her rigid form.

Realization strikes with brutal force – she's dying despite my desperate attempts at comfort and encouragement. The light in her extraordinary eyes dims with each passing second, pupils fixed and unresponsive.

Panic, unlike anything I've experienced claws up my throat, shredding carefully maintained control.

"ATLAS! DANTE! HELP!" The cry bursts from my chest with primal intensity, echoing through the gas-clouded forest.

Her body temperature drops with terrifying speed, skin grows cold beneath my touch. Questions hammer through my mind with increasing urgency –how long has she been bleeding? When did the bullet find its mark? Why didn't we notice her injury sooner?

The black fabric of Atlas's shirt proves perfect camouflage for spreading crimson stains. Their focus on escape —survival— to reaching safety blinded them from acknowledging her deteriorating condition. The omega we fought so hard to save was slipping away while we pushed forward, unknowing.

Rage builds in my chest, alpha instincts howling for vengeance against whoever dared harm her. The growl that escapes carries notes of pure anguish – fury at a faceless enemy mixed with devastating grief for failing to protect.

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