Page 100 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

His eyes roll wild in his skull—pupils blown so wide only thin rings of color remain visible around the edges.

I don't think. Can't think.

The rage consuming every rational thought burns too hot for strategy or a calculated response. There's only the primal imperative screaming through my bloodstream:protect what's mine, destroy what threatens, survive until she's safe.

My fist connects with his jaw hard enough to shatter bone, the wet crack echoing through the arena like breaking timber.

His head snaps back at an impossible angle, vertebrae grinding against each other with sounds that would make normal people vomit. But he doesn't go down—whatever they've done to him has turned off pain receptors and cranked aggression beyond human limitations.

Blood sprays from his ruined mouth as he lunges again, massive hands reaching for my throat with fingers bent intoclaws. I duck under his grasp, driving my elbow up into his solar plexus with enough force to crater his ribcage.

The impact drives air from his lungs in a whistling gasp, but he still doesn't fall.

Two more circle behind me while another pair flanks from the sides—pack hunting tactics despite their feral state, some vestige of alpha intelligence surviving beneath chemical-induced madness.

The coordination would be impressive if it weren't so fucking terrifying.

My nostrils flare desperately, seeking that precious scent that's become my lifeline in this nightmare.

Cardamom and cinnamon, exotic fruits and rain-soaked earth—her fragrance cuts through the stench of unwashed bodies and spilled blood like a beacon in hell's darkness.

Still there, still real, stillminedespite the institutional theft that tore her from our bonded sanctuary.

The second attacker moves faster than should be possible, enhanced reflexes operating beyond normal human parameters.

His shoulder catches me in the ribs, driving us both to the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs and violence. We roll across blood-slick surfaces, each trying to gain dominant position while avoiding the snapping teeth that promise infection or worse.

His weight pins me momentarily—two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and rage focused on tearing out my throat.

Saliva drips from his bared fangs onto my face, carrying the stench of decay and chemical enhancement. Up close, I can see what institutional conditioning has done to him—scars from repeated surgeries, track marks from constant injection, the glassy sheen of sanity permanently fractured through systematic abuse.

This could have been me.

Would have been me if I'd lasted much longer in their tender care.

The thought ignites fresh fury that transcends physical limitation. My knee drives up between his legs with surgical precision, enhanced alpha anatomy providing target that remains vulnerable despite chemical dulling of pain response.

His howl of agony gives me the opening I need.

I roll him off and surge to my feet just as the third attacker reaches striking distance. This one carries improvised weapons—sharpened metal torn from institutional fixtures, crude but effective in hands trained for violence. He swings the jagged implement in wide arcs designed to open arteries and scatter blood across arena walls.

Muscle memory guides my response without conscious direction. Duck the first swing, step inside his guard, drive my palm up into his nose with enough force to send bone fragments into his brain.

The wet crunch of cartilage separating from skull provides grim satisfaction as he drops like a felled tree.

But there's no time to savor victory.

Numbers four and five coordinate their assault with tactical precision that speaks to military training buried beneath pharmaceutical conditioning. They move as a unit—one high, one low—forcing me to defend multiple attack vectors simultaneously.

The high attacker's fist whistles past my ear as I drop into a defensive crouch, feeling displaced air ruffle my hair. His follow-up comes as a knee strike aimed at my temple, technique textbook perfect despite the foam dripping from his mouth and the madness burning in his eyes.

I catch his leg mid-strike, using his momentum to spin him into his partner's path. They collide with the bone-jarringimpact that sends both staggering, giving me precious seconds to position for a counterattack.

My elbow finds the first one's temple as he tries to recover balance. The blow drops him immediately—lights out, nervous system shutting down to protect damaged brain tissue from further trauma.

One threat eliminated, but his partner recovers faster than anticipated.

Massive hands lock around my throat from behind, cutting off air with crushing pressure that makes spots dance across my vision. Enhanced alpha strength multiplied by chemical enhancement proves almost impossible to break through conventional means.

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