Page 109 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Trust offered without reservation despite circumstances that would justify paranoia and skepticism in anyone with functioning survival instincts.

"If you say so," she murmurs, voice carrying acceptance that warms something deep in my chest. "Do you know where we're going? Surely everything isn't the same as the first time around, though I don't remember much."

The question touches on practical concerns that require honest assessment rather than false reassurance.

Press has certainly modified institutional layout and security protocols since our previous navigation attempt, learning from our earlier success to implement countermeasures designed to prevent repetition of previous strategies.

"Relax and I'll handle it," I assure her, confidence born from enhanced spatial awareness and tactical training that transcends architectural modification or security enhancement. "I know exactly how to get to Sable despite whatever changes they've made."

And I do know. Some things become instinctive after years of institutional navigation.

The route to Level Minus Three remains burned into neural pathways despite time and systematic conditioning designed to eliminate such knowledge.

Muscle memory guides my steps through corridors that may look different but follow identical underlying patterns—institutional efficiency prioritizing function over aesthetics in ways that create recognizable navigation parameters.

"Are you sure?" she presses with what might be concern or simple tactical thoroughness. "Should I ask Maverick?"

Her casual mention of the male voice that's been providing guidance throughout her return triggers an immediate alpha response that bypasses rational thought to manifest as a territorial growl. The sound emerges from somewhere primal and possessive, a vocal expression of claim that needs no translation or explanation.

Male voice. In her head. Providing intimate guidance and support.

Every alpha instinct screams against allowing another male—regardless of circumstances or practical necessity—to maintain such a close connection with my bonded omega.

The rational mind recognizes potential strategic value, but emotion operates beyond logical assessment when it comes to perceived threats against established pair bonds.

"The male voice in your head?" I clarify with a dangerous quiet that makes her shift slightly against my shoulder.

"It's a transmitter implant," she explains with patience that suggests she expected this reaction. "But sure, if that's how you want to think about it."

The clarification does nothing to ease the territorial response burning in my chest. Transmitter implant just means the connection is even more intimate—technology embedded within her body, a foreign presence occupying space that should belongexclusively to pack members rather than external sources of guidance and support.

"You better transmit it out when we get out of here," I state with flat finality that brooks no argument or negotiation.

Her giggle catches me off guard—a light sound that carries genuine amusement rather than nervousness or placating behavior. The reaction suggests she finds my jealousy endearing rather than threatening, an emotional response that somehow makes me feel simultaneously more and less secure in my position.

"Are you envious?" she asks with a teasing tone that makes my jaw clench despite her obvious enjoyment of my discomfort.

"I can't be envious yet," I correct with dark promise that sends anticipation through my system, "'cause at least I can fuck you nice and hard to claim you as mine over and over again. What can he do?"

The crude language emerges without a conscious filter—territorial marking through verbal possession that announces intent despite a public setting and continued surveillance.

She brings out responses in me that bypass institutional conditioning to access something more primitive and honest.

Her snicker carries satisfaction that suggests my reaction provides exactly the entertainment she was seeking.

"You don't want to hear his answer."

The implication that this disembodied voice has responded to my challenge with a counter-threat makes my hands tighten on her body with a possessive grip that probably verges on uncomfortable. The idea that some external presence considers itself qualified to compete for my omega's attention triggers responses that transcend rational assessment or tactical consideration.

"Whatever," I mutter with false dismissal that fools neither of us. "That transmitter is going when we escape here, unless thisMaverick douche wants to come out of his computer and be an alpha and claim you the same way we will."

The ultimatum carries absolute seriousness despite its apparent absurdity. I don't care about practical considerations or strategic advantages—no other male maintains an intimate connection with my bonded mate, regardless of technological mediation or claimed necessity.

"He says challenge accepted," she reports with obvious glee at having created this territorial conflict between alphas who will never meet in physical space.

My responding huff conveys exactly what I think of technological challenges from disembodied voices, regardless of whatever capabilities they might claim or strategic advantages they provide. Physical presence trumps digital connection every time when it comes to genuine claiming and long-term pair bonding.

But even as territorial jealousy burns in my chest, part of me recognizes the strange normalcy of this interaction.

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