Page 10 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

She would never return to this place of nightmares. Not if she had any choice.

The thought carries unexpected bitterness. I should want her free, should hope she's found peace beyond Ravenscroft's reach. But the selfish alpha part of me—the primal instinct that recognized her asminedespite her youth and my protective restraint—wants her back with a desperation that borders on madness.

I close my eyes, allowing myself the forbidden luxury of remembering her scent—the sweetness that haunted my dreams for years after her disappearance.

Hints of tropical spices like cardamom and cinnamon kissed by exotic fruits.

Beneath it all, a distinctive base note reminiscent of rain-soaked forest floor, earthy and rich with potential.

That scent carried complexity beyond her years, suggesting depths unmapped and possibilities unrealized. It promised everything alpha biology craved—compatibility, fertility, the potential for legacy—while simultaneously broadcasting a mind sharp enough to match any tactical challenge.

Perfect.

She was perfect in ways that transcended conventional omega desirability.

Not merely beautiful, though she certainly possessed striking features that would only become more pronounced with maturity. Not simply fertile, though her genetic markers clearly indicated exceptional reproductive capacity.

No, what made Jinx Blackwood truly extraordinary was the mind behind those calculating eyes. The strategic brilliance that had mapped every level of Ravenscroft's hierarchy and selectedalphas not for superficial traits but for specialized skills essential to her master plan.

How often have I tried to recapture that scent from memory?

How many times have I closed my eyes in this cell and imagined her grown to maturity, developed into the formidable woman that frightened child was destined to become?

Too many to count.

Sometimes I wonder if she's found another pack in the outside world. If she's been claimed by alphas who couldn't possibly understand the magnificent creature they've ensnared.

The thought generates a possessive rage that burns hotter than any physical pain these pits have inflicted.

She was ours. Only ours.

My eyes snap open as the ventilation system above my cell activates with mechanical precision.

The usual tactic—psychological preparation for upcoming combat through controlled exposure to pheromones and scent signatures. Standard procedure before matches that is designed to provoke maximum aggression.

I ignore it as always, having developed resistance to most chemical triggers they employ.

Let them waste resources on?—

The scent hits my nostrils dead on, slamming into my consciousness with enough force to shock a growl from my throat.

Impossible.

My body responds before my mind can process what's happening—cock hardening with painful immediacy, alpha instincts roaring to life after years of carefully maintained control.

Every muscle tenses as I inhale deeper, desperate for confirmation that I haven't finally descended into complete madness.

Cardamom. Cinnamon. Exotic fruits and rain-soaked forest floor.

But different now—richer, more complex, aged like fine wine into something that makes my mouth water and my hands shake with primal need.

The innocent sweetness has transformed into sophisticated allure, maintaining its distinctive signature while developing dimensions that speak of maturity and fully realized potential.

Her.

Not some chemical approximation designed to trigger response.

Not some cruel simulation created from scent profiles stored in their databases.

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