Page 133 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Live.

Breathe.

Stay with my pack.

Please…stay with me.

Each compression carries command, each rescue breath holds entreaty. The alpha in me pours every ounce of dominance into willing her back from death's threshold. Orders her to fight, to survive, to return from whatever darkness claims her.

I don’t even know what I’m saying between breathing resurrection efforts.Words of encouragement? Pleas begging for her survival so we can get to know each other.Anything that would give her soul the motivation to return to this life that was so beyond cruel to her, just so we can give her a chance at happiness.

At the experience of blissful peace.

Losing her now, after protective instincts just awakened from years of dormancy and the idea of her potentially being an Omega we protect from the system desperate to ruin her, carries the weight of cosmic cruelty.

The universe itself seems to mock second chances, delivering possibility only to snatch it away.

I refuse to yield and stubbornly decline the forced acceptance of this ending. My hands maintain a steady rhythm as if sheer stubbornness can force life back into failing flesh.

Each motion carries pure defiance against fate's apparent decree.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Repeat.

Until she draws breath on her own or my arms give out completely, I will not stop fighting for her survival. The alpha in me recognizes something too precious to surrender without epic battle –even against death itself.

My arms burn with fatigue as hope slips further away with each compression. Despite every ounce of strength poured into CPR, her body remains unresponsive.

Tears blur my vision until I can barely meet those fixed emerald eyes before delivering another rescue breath.

The urge to surrender claws at my resolve as exhaustion sets in. Sobs threaten to break the rhythm of life-saving motions when Dante crashes through the undergrowth, defibrillator clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

He drops beside her still form with practiced urgency while Atlas's hands find my shoulders, pulling me back with unerring accuracy.

"I tried," the words escape in a broken whisper as if confession might somehow alter bitter reality.

My body shakes with suppressed grief, strength finally failing as Atlas's arms tighten around me.

He offers no empty comfort, no false assurances – just solid presence as we're forced to watch Dante work.

The sound of fabric tearing cuts through the night air as he exposes her chest, revealing a magnitude of trauma painted across pale skin.

Scars layer upon scars – some surgical, others born of clear cruelty. Bruises in various stages of healing map a constellation of suffering across her torso.

Each mark tells a story of survival through unimaginable torment, of years spent enduring systematic torture in solitary silence.

Rage ignites in my chest, burning away grief with promise of vengeance. Regardless of the outcome, blood will answer for every scar, every bruise, and every moment of pain inflicted upon her.

This debt will be paid in full, written in the screams of those responsible.

Dante positions the defibrillator pads with methodical precision, his usual swagger replaced by intense focus. The machine's automated countdown pierces tension – three seconds until discharge, warning all to maintain distance.

The shock rocks through her small frame, arching her back off the blood-soaked earth. But those extraordinary eyes remain fixed, chest still refusing to rise with breath.

Dante's jaw clenches as he initiates the second charge, determination warring with growing despair.

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