Page 103 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"Jinx. Jinx, you need to wake up."

Maverick's voice cuts through the haze like a lifeline thrown into churning waters, distant but insistent. The sound feels muffled, as if reaching me through layers of cotton and fog, but it carries urgency that penetrates whatever chemical stupor holds my consciousness captive.

I try to respond, to acknowledge his call, but my body feels disconnected from conscious thought.Heavy. Sluggish.Like I'm piloting a machine that responds to commands several seconds late, if at all.

A sharp electric buzz jolts through my system—sudden and jarring enough to make my muscles spasm against whatever restraints hold me suspended. The sensation repeats, then again, each pulse driving awareness deeper into my drugged consciousness like nails hammered into wooden posts.

My eyes flutter open to slits, the world swimming in and out of focus through a kaleidoscope of institutional lighting and shadows. Everything feels wrong—perspective skewed, sensations delayed, reality filtered through pharmaceutical interference that makes simple perception a monumental effort.

"That's it," Maverick urges, relief evident in his voice despite electronic distortion. "Stay with me. You need to focus."

"What..." The word emerges as barely a whisper, throat raw and tongue thick with residual sedation. "What happened?"

Through the haze, I begin registering my circumstances with growing horror.

Metal shackles bind my wrists and ankles, chains supporting my weight as I hang suspended in what appears to be some sort of elaborate restraint system. The positioning leaves me swaying gently, like a twisted pendulum marking time above...

Above what?

Sound drifts from below—muted chaos that speaks to violence unfolding beneath my enforced observation.Grunts and roars, impacts that vibrate through the air with physical force, the wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh with devastating consequence.

I try to speak again, to call out, but my voice produces nothing more than a pathetic squeak that gets lost in the cacophony below.

The stench rising on heated air currents makes my stomach turn—unwashed bodies, spilled blood, the acrid smell of fear and rage mixed into an atmospheric cocktail that speaks to systematic brutality.

"Jinx, listen to me carefully," Maverick's voice carries sharp authority that cuts through my disorientation. "You need to focus on my voice, or Riot is going to die."

Riot.

The name penetrates pharmaceutical fog with electric clarity, triggering recognition that makes my heart thunder against my ribs.

Not the female omega who helped me navigate the chamber separation, butmyRiot—the alpha who claimed me in thatsteamed sanctuary, whose knot locked inside me while we created bonds that transcend institutional categorization.

But Maverick must sense my confusion because he continues with an urgent explanation.

"He's struggling to keep up after taking down at least fifty of those modified bastards. You need to use your omega pheromones to your advantage—make it seem like you're in distress to further motivate him to continue."

Understanding dawns with sickening clarity.

Below me, my alpha fights for his life while I hang helpless in mechanical captivity, forced to watch violence I cannot prevent or escape. The realization sends ice through my veins despite the chemical warmth trying to drag consciousness back toward oblivion.

"I understand the logistics," I manage to whisper, words slurring despite concentrated effort at clarity. "But how will I make my body do that?"

The question carries practical weight beyond theoretical understanding.

Chemical suppression has numbed normal physiological responses, leaving me disconnected from the biological systems that might normally respond to emotional stimuli or conscious direction.

"You need to imagine how Riot made you feel in that cell," Maverick explains with clinical precision that doesn't quite mask underlying desperation. "You need to be hot and bothered, which may be difficult in your current predicament, but it'll force your scent to heighten and potentially perfume the air with your arousal."

The suggestion would be absurd under normal circumstances—manufacturing sexual response while hanging in chains above a gladiatorial arena.But these aren't normalcircumstances, and the alternative is watching my newly bonded alpha die while I remain powerless to intervene.

"It would make the other alphas even more feral," Maverick continues, "but it would boost Riot as well. Alpha biology responds to omega distress with enhanced protective capabilities."

The concept makes biological sense even through pharmaceutical interference.

Omega arousal combined with apparent vulnerability would trigger every alpha instinct toward both protection and possession, creating chaos among enemies while providing my alpha with chemical incentive to exceed normal limitations.

But the idea of helping Riot—of using my own body to provide the advantage he needs to survive—cuts through sedation with laser focus. Nothing else matters beyond ensuring his continued existence, whatever the cost to personal dignity or physical comfort.

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