Page 163 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

"Really?"

"Dante helped with the installation," I explain, feeling that familiar warmth of pack pride. "He's got hidden talents beyond the tactical stuff."

"I'm impressed," she says softly before her expression shifts to something more uncertain. "I feel bad that I haven't spent more time with each of you individually. Especially with..." She trails off, but I understand the weight of an unspoken deadline hovering in her thoughts.

"No," I shake my head firmly. "Don't feel bad about that. We actually agreed to take this approach." At her questioning look, I continue, "Rather than all of us rushing to be the first to claim your attention, we wanted to give you space."

"Why?" The question carries hints of disappointment and uncertainty that make my chest ache.

"Because you're not an object," I state with quiet intensity. "We don't want you feeling like your only value is the pleasure you can bring us. That's not what having an omega means to this pack."

"But..." she hesitates, confusion clear in her features. "People make it seem like you're harmful, feral, or unmateable because..."

"Because we won't pounce on every omega we see?" I complete her thought with a bitter laugh. "Yeah, we're horny fuckers with needs, I won't deny that. But we're past that stage of just fucking for the hell of it."

My hands grip the wheelchair's arms as memories surface of younger days, of meaningless connections that left hollow emptiness in their wake.

"No connection, just strangers opening channels that potentially lead to knotting and being stuck with an omega that only wants us for whatever financial benefit they can gain? No thanks."

I shake my head, dispersing darker thoughts.

"We're over that shit."

The conviction in my voice draws her closer, curiosity bright in her extraordinary eyes.

"Tell me more?" The request comes gentle, genuinely interested rather than demanding. It’s nice to have an Omega that actually wants to listen to your past.

To get a glimpse of what shaped you…

"Society has weird expectations," I begin, choosing words carefully. "Alphas are supposed to be these mindless rutting machines, claiming any compatible omega without thought or discretion. If we show restraint or actually want connection beyond physical, suddenly we're 'feral' or 'damaged.'"

Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with a natural ease that still catches me off guard.

The simple gesture encourages me to continue.

"The pack saw too much during missions. Too many omegas treated like property, too many bonds formed for political or financial advantage rather than genuine connection." My thumb traces absent patterns across her knuckles. "Made us realize we wanted something different."

"Different how?" Her question carries no judgment, just a sincere desire to understand.

"We want an omega who sees us as people, not just designations or bank accounts. Someone who builds genuine connections rather than calculating potential profit." My gazemeets hers directly. "Someone who might actually care if we don't come back…you know."

Understanding blooms in her expression as pieces click into place.

"That's why you've been so careful with me. Why you don't push for more despite obvious attraction."

"Partly," I admit. "You've been through hell, little one. The last thing you needed was four alphas fighting over who got to claim you first." A slight smile tugs at my lips. "Though Atlas kind of jumped the queue there."

Her blush proves adorable, but she maintains eye contact.

"He did. But it felt... natural. Not forced or clinical like..."

"Like Ravenscroft," I finish when she trails off. "Exactly. That's what we want – natural progression based on genuine connection. Not forced compliance or calculated submission."

"But society labels you feral for wanting actual relationships?" The confusion in her tone mirrors my own feelings on the matter.

"Society's fucked up," I state bluntly. "They've commodified designation dynamics until meaning gets lost beneath market value and political advantage. Alphas who want more than physical gratification get labeled defective because we're harder to control through biological imperatives."

Her fingers tighten around mine as the implications sink deeper.

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