Page 15 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"Brief interaction only," she warns, tapping authorization codes into the security panel. "Five minutes maximum. Remain behind the safety line at all times."

The door slides open with pneumatic precision, and the atmosphere changes immediately—scent carries different information than visual observation, revealing dimensions invisible through glass barriers.

His smell hits me first—earth after rainfall, worn leather, and something reminiscent of old books with pages yellowed by time. Beneath it all runs a current of something uniquely alpha but distinctly different from Riot's more primal signature.

This scent speaks of judgment and wisdom, of patience born from witnessing countless human failings, of knowledge acquired through observation rather than experience. It reminds me of those rare moments when clouds part after storms, revealing clarity that’s impossible during tumultuous weather.

Like freedom.

The thought catches me off-guard, primitive omega instincts recognizing something my conscious mind hasn't fully processed.

This alpha's scent carries notes I've never encountered within Ravenscroft's walls—elements that must originate fromthe world beyond, from experiences in open air and natural environments.

I step carefully to the marked line on the floor, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. Despite remaining upside down, the judge turns his head with precise control, facing me directly for the first time.

His eyes captivate me immediately—pale silver like mercury, reflecting light with unnatural intensity.They show no surprise at my presence, no reaction to the novelty of a young omega entering his space.

Only calm assessment, as if my arrival represents merely another variable in an equation he's already solving.

"Hello," I offer quietly, keeping my voice below the threshold where monitoring systems automatically activate enhanced recording protocols.

He studies me silently, gaze tracking across features with methodical precision. When he finally speaks, his voice emerges surprisingly smooth despite his inverted position—rich baritone with a controlled cadence that suggests careful measurement of each syllable.

"Blackwood genetics," he observes, the simple phrase carrying weight beyond its syllables. "Interesting that they've allowed direct interaction at this stage of development."

Surprise flickers through me at his immediate recognition of my lineage. Most subjects know me only by numerical designation, not genetic heritage.

"How did you?—"

"Hair coloration patterns consistent with documented Blackwood phenotypic markers. Facial structure matching statistical probability models for matrilineal inheritance. Scent signature carrying distinctive base notes associated with specialized genetic modifications implemented during second-generation enhancement protocols."

The clinical assessment flows with practiced ease, yet something in his tone suggests these observations serve as cover for a deeper analysis he chooses not to verbalize.

"You know my family," I state rather than ask, certainty flowing from his precise terminology.

A smile touches his lips—the expression strangely dignified despite his compromised position.

"I knew of them. Different matter entirely." His silver eyes narrow slightly. "Why have they brought you to me, little omega? What purpose does this interaction serve in their endless experimentation?"

The question carries no accusation, only practical assessment of motivations and potential consequences. I recognize the judicial mind at work—evaluating evidence, identifying patterns, determining probable outcomes.

"They think I requested this interaction out of curiosity," I answer truthfully, matching his quiet tone. "They don't understand the actual purpose."

Interest flickers across his features, the first genuine emotional response he's displayed.

"And what is that purpose?"

I step closer, approaching the boundary of the safety line without crossing it.

"I'm building something," I tell him, the admission dangerous yet necessary. "Something they don't see. Can't see. Won't see until it's too late."

He remains silent for several heartbeats, those mercury eyes studying me with renewed intensity.

When he speaks again, his voice drops even lower.

"You're collecting alphas."

The simple statement, delivered without judgment or question, confirms what I've suspected—this man sees patterns others miss, understands strategies from minimal evidence.

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