Page 168 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

If Subdivision D hadn't been nearby... if they hadn't responded so quickly to emergency signals... if they hadn't had proper medical training...

The thought sends fresh wave of fury through my system.

What kind of omega doesn't know basic life-saving techniques?

What kind of facility trains us for combat but not for saving those we care about?

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, knowing there was no point in teaching whom they labeled dogs, basic life resurrectiontreatment, especially when the intention was to kill, not save, but this is the only way I can protect what I dare say is mine.

And if that means causing an uproar, so be it.

"That won't be necessary."

The voice striking through tension freezes my blood solid. My eyes widen as recognition hits. Fighting the panic beat of my heart against my chest, my head whips around to stare past my Alphas at the man I never thought I'd see again.

The owner of Ravenscroft Asylum stands in a perfectly pressed suit, exactly as I remember. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle to mar his presentation. The same man who watched countless experiments with clinical detachment now studies me with unnerving intensity.

The one who mocked us. The devil who tried to stop my escape with threats.

Now he’s returned once more, and from his taunting gaze, I’m sure he’s plotted another diabolical plan to ruin me.

The coincidence feels too precise to be an accident.

Memory crashes through carefully maintained control:

Vale's face going slack as consciousness fled.

The terrible stillness of his chest beneath my palms.

The endless seconds before help arrived.

The eternity of watching others fight to restart his heart.

My fury finds a new focus, crystallizing into something beyond mere rage. This man, this monster who orchestrated years of torment, somehow connects to the current crisis. The realization burns through my veins like acid, awakening something primal that transcends designation dynamics.

The alphas behind me shift stances subtly, reading murderous intent in my rigid posture. But they make no move to stop me, no attempt to prevent whatever violence might explode from this recognition.

Because they understand.

They've seen firsthand what Ravenscroft's "treatments" did to omegas. What their careful programming stole from countless lives. What their experiments cost in blood and pain and shattered psyches.

Now Vale lies unconscious three floors above us, machines monitoring every breath while doctors try to understand what triggered cardiac arrest. Yes, he was facing a degenerative disease, but it hadn’t reached his heart yet. He still had plenty of time to fight and get better with the right treatment.

Someone administered those meds with the perfect dosage to trigger anoverdose.

Since I hadn’t finalized a bond with him yet, they can easily toss the blame on me. The omega who didn’t attend to her Alpha’s needs, driving him to see no future but to kill himself…

The desk between us suddenly feels like an insufficient barrier.

My voice emerges barely above a whisper, carrying decades of accumulated pain:

"What did you do to him?"

The question hangs between us like a drawn blade, sharp enough to draw blood. His slight smile never wavers as he studies me with those cold eyes that haunted countless nightmares.

"Patient 495," he says my designation like a cherished memory. "You've exceeded every expectation. Truly remarkable progress."

The use of that number, that careful categorization they branded into my psyche, sends a fresh wave of sizzling anger through my system. But beneath rage burns something colder, more calculated – the part of me they crafted so carefully now turned toward their destruction.

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