Page 169 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

He planned this to happen.

Wanted me to return straight to him.

"Allow me to formally introduce myself," he smooths nonexistent wrinkles from his impeccable suit. "Charles Press.”

He pauses on purpose, clearly having no intention of speaking the list of credentials people would normally lay out to be acknowledged.

“Margaret, you may step out. Our omega guest and her alpha comrades wouldn't be foolish enough to start anything." His smile carries venomous certainty. "Not while one of their own fights for his life on machinery I own. It would be quite... unfortunate if we experienced a sudden blackout that affected the backup systems."

"You wouldn't dare." Dante's voice carries deadly promise.

"Oh, but I would." He meets the challenge without hesitation. "I know exactly who your pack is. Parazodiac, isn't it? Playing at running things when really," his laugh holds no warmth, "you're merely minnows swimming among sharks."

Each measured step toward the desk forces us to adjust position, a careful dance of predator and prey where roles remain frustratingly unclear. His movements carry deliberate precision as he removes his jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a bandaged arm where my knife found its mark.

The display feels calculated, reminding us of violence already exchanged while promising more to come.

He settles into the chair with casual dominance that makes my teeth ache.

"Such unfortunate circumstances," he observes, folding his hands on the desk's polished surface. "Let's not waste time with pleasantries. Out of the goodness of my heart, I won't charge for the life-saving intervention your alpha required."

The pause carries the weight of a trap about to spring.

"However, continued treatment is reserved for alphas with established omega bonds. And it's quite obvious this pack hasn't officially claimed the omega standing before us."

"You can't just stop treatment," Kieran's protest carries notes of desperate fury.

"Why not?" The question emerges silk-smooth, wrapped in absolute authority. "I own this facility. Why shouldn't I determine who deserves access to what I provide? Who receives care and who... doesn't?"

The implications sink like lead in my stomach as understanding dawns.

Every calculated move, every careful manipulation, has led to this moment of inevitable choice.

My voice emerges barely above a whisper, forced past the lump forming in my throat.

"What needs to be done for Vale to continue receiving treatment?"

Atlas's hand finds my shoulder, grip conveying silent support even as rage radiates from his frame. Dante's carefully controlled breathing speaks of violence barely contained, while Kieran's scent carries notes of pure protective fury.

But we all recognize the trap we've walked into — the careful manipulation that leaves no room for negotiation or escape. Vale's life hangs by threads this man controls with casual cruelty, leaving us no choice but to play whatever game he's orchestrated.

He leans back, satisfaction radiating from every pore as he watches as realization settles over us. He's orchestrated this perfectly – using Vale's condition, the facility's resources, and my presence to create a situation that serves his purposes entirely.

The machinery keeping Vale alive hums in my consciousness, each beep marking seconds where his survival depends entirely on the equipment this man controls. The knowledge burns like acid in my veins, but beneath fury grows cold certainty – whatever price he names, I'll pay it.

Even if it means returning to that hellhole.

Because watching Vale's heart stop once was enough.

Living those eternal seconds between the last breath and desperate revival carved scars I never want to experience again. This man may control the game for now, but he doesn't understand what six years of his careful programming created.

He sees an Omega ready to submit for the sake of alpha survival. What he's actually facing is weapon turned protector, every careful lesson in violence and control now focused on ensuring my pack’s survival by any means necessary.

I survived Ravenscroft once. I can do it again.

Let him believe he holds all the cards. Savor momentary triumph while it lasts, but I intend to play until the very end, until the price of his interference extracts payment in a currency he never expected to spend.

Charles reaches into his desk drawer with deliberate slowness, extracting a single sheet of paper and placing it before him. A pen follows, laid across the pristine surface with precise care that speaks of calculated performance.

---