Page 121 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Her gaze widens with incremental surprise as understanding crystallizes—not seeing a stranger or institutional personnel, but an alpha from the pack she assembled with such strategic precision.

Jinx.

Our Jinx…has grown beautifully.

The eye contact creates connection that transcends physical barriers and temporal separation. Recognition flows between us with devastating clarity—acknowledgment of bond formed through choice rather than biological imperative, pack membership that survived systematic interference and extended isolation.

Her scent intensifies as emotion breaks through tactical facades both of us maintain for survival purposes. The atmospheric change speaks to genuine response rather than artificial enhancement—omega instincts recognizing a compatible alpha after years of separation and institutional conditioning designed to eliminate exactly such connections.

"S-Sable," she whispers, the name emerging with a slight stutter that betrays emotional impact despite characteristic attempt at controlled delivery.

Hearing my name from her lips—not designation or institutional terminology, but personal identification thatacknowledges individual identity beyond tactical function—sends warmth through my chest that has known nothing but judicial coldness for years of suspended existence.

This is real. She's real.

No matter the impossible circumstances that brought her back to institutional hell, whatever strategic objective drives her return to this place of systematic torture and psychological manipulation, she's actually here rather than cruel hallucination or administrative deception.

Then I see it—crimson blooming at her nostril like a flower of alarm against pale skin. The nosebleed spreads with terrifying speed, transforming our precious reunion into something that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.

Blood. Too much blood. Too fast.

My enhanced vision catches every detail—the way her suspended form trembles like a leaf in winter wind, pupils blown wide with whatever chemical or emotional storm rages through her enhanced system.

Her breathing comes quick and shallow, each breath a small fight against whatever's overwhelming her beautiful, complicated biology.

This isn't just seeing me again. Something's pushing her past breaking points I never knew existed.

Before I can call her name or offer any comfort, her extraordinary eyes roll back until only whites remain.

Consciousness abandons her face like the last light leaving evening sky, and my soul nearly tears itself apart watching her slip away when we've just found each other again.

No. Not now. Not when she's finally here.

The improvised harness won't hold dead weight—those knots were tied for a conscious omega maintaining position, not for the terrifying limpness that now threatens to drag her toward concrete death.

My hands move like they're on fire, driven by desperation that makes enhanced reflexes feel slow as honey. The rope around my waist—my lifeline through six years of suspended judgment—suddenly becomes something infinitely more precious.

I secure a second anchor point with fingers that shake despite years of judicial control, then pull the concealed blade I've kept hidden through countless searches. The metal gleams with care and patience and the desperate hope that someday it might save something worth saving.

Her makeshift harness shows stress fractures spreading like spider webs. Each heartbeat brings us closer to disaster, yet rushing could trigger the very catastrophe I'm fighting to prevent.

Steady. Precise. Like passing sentence on those who deserved mercy.

I position the blade at exactly the right angle, applying pressure to weaken rather than sever—controlled failure instead of chaotic collapse.

The moment arrives with a sound like breaking hearts as fabric gives way. But I'm already moving, already reaching, already catching her waist as gravity tries to claim what belongs to me.

Her weight settles against my arm with absolute trust despite unconsciousness.Even asleep, her body knows protection when it finds it.The contact sends lightning through nerve endings that have known nothing but isolation for longer than I care to count.

But Press's chamber isn't finished with us yet.

Gravity reverses on my side of the barrier like the world's gone insane. Artificial forces that should exist only in nightmares lift us both toward the ceiling with gathering speed, turning sanctuary into chaos in the span of heartbeats.

I tighten my grip around her waist while managing rope tension with my free hand—split between keeping my unconscious omega safe and navigating physics that have abandoned all pretense of natural order.My core screams with effort as positioning becomes life or death for us both.

The chamber stretches upward beyond what eyes first revealed—architectural lies that hid the true scope of this trap until gravitational madness exposed every deadly inch.

We rise through expanding space toward anchor points that suddenly seem both salvation and terrible judgment.

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