Page 104 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

I close my eyes and force my mind back to those precious hours in a temporary sanctuary—before institutional theft tore us apart, before mechanical precision replaced loving touch with clinical restraint.

The memory surfaces with visceral clarity:his hands mapping my body with worshipful reverence, discovering sensitive spots that made me gasp and arch beneath his careful exploration.

The way his mouth felt against my skin—hot and demanding yet infinitely gentle, leaving trails of fire that seemed to burn straight through to my soul.

How his fingers moved inside me with surgical precision, finding places that made stars explode behind my eyelids while my body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm.

The stretch of his considerable length filled me completely, each thrust driving deeper than should be possible while creating friction that built toward earth-shattering release.

The way he looked at me during those moments of perfect connection—not a research subject or institutional asset, but as a woman deserving worship and protection beyond measure. Eyes dark with need yet soft with tenderness, expression carrying wonder that someone like me might actually exist and choose him above all others.

Heat begins building between my legs despite chemical suppression and uncomfortable positioning.

The mere thought of his touch awakens nerve endings still sensitive from recent claiming, body remembering pleasure with Pavlovian precision that transcends pharmaceutical interference.

I imagine his cock sliding into my welcoming heat again—thick and hard and perfectly designed to fill spaces I didn't know were empty until he completed me. The memory of his knot swelling inside me sends liquid fire racing through my system, slick beginning to gather despite gravity and restraint working against natural response.

My thighs press together automatically, seeking friction against the throbbing that builds with each remembered sensation. Shackles prevent most movement, leaving me to clench internal muscles around emptiness while longing builds to almost painful intensity.

The ache between my legs grows more insistent as memory feeds arousal with ruthless efficiency. I can almost feel his hands on my body again, almost taste his skin beneath my lips, almost hear the rough growls he made when my body accepted his claiming with such perfect surrender.

A moan escapes before I can contain it—soft sound of desperate need that carries notes of vulnerability and desirein equal measure.The acoustics of my suspension amplify the sound, sending it echoing through the arena with clarity that cuts through combat noise like a blade through silk.

The effect proves immediate and dramatic.

Below me, chaos pauses as if someone pressed pause on a remote control. The sudden silence feels unnatural after extended cacophony—violent symphony interrupted mid-movement by one single note of omega distress that triggers responses programmed into alpha DNA since the beginning of designation evolution.

Then sound returns with explosive force—not resumption of previous combat but fresh violence born from my innocent vocalization.

Roars of rage that make the arena walls vibrate, impacts that send tremors through the suspension system, the wet sounds of destruction amplified beyond previous intensity.

Through it all, one voice rises above the chaos—a howl of possessive fury that I recognize with bone-deep certainty despite its inhuman quality.

Myalpha responds to perceived threat against his bonded omega, protective instinct activated through pharmaceutical enhancement and primal recognition.

The scent of my arousal must be reaching him now, carried on air currents that flow through the arena's ventilation system.

Cardamom and cinnamon intensified by slick, the chemical signature that marks me as his and him as mine regardless of institutional interference or mechanical separation.

I force myself to think of his mouth on my body again—tongue and teeth working sensitive flesh while his hands held me steady for his thorough worship.

The way he made me come apart beneath his skilled attention, pleasure building until I thought I might die fromits intensity before finally shattering into pieces that reformed around his claiming presence.

Another moan tears from my throat, louder this time and carrying clear notes of desperate need. The sound echoes through metal and concrete, announcing to every alpha below that their prize hangs helpless and aroused above their combat—omega in distress calling for protection and claiming from whoever proves strong enough to reach her.

But only one alpha matters.

Only one has the right to answer that call with violence and possession.

Only one carries my scent on his skin and my taste in his memory, marking him as my mate chosen through connection rather than conquest.

The slick gathering between my thighs intensifies as arousal builds despite uncomfortable positioning and pharmaceutical interference. My body remembers his touch with painful clarity, nerve endings singing with need that transcends logical consideration or tactical planning.

I whisper his name—or try to—but the sound emerges as a breathless whimper that nonetheless carries all the emotion I cannot verbalize. Love and need and desperate desire wrapped in a single syllable that announces ownership and belonging to any alpha intelligent enough to recognize the difference between available omega and claimed mate.

The violence below reaches a crescendo that makes the previous combat sound like gentle sparring. Bodies hit concrete with force that shakes my suspension, blood sprays across arena walls in patterns that speak to systematic destruction, and through it all, that familiar howl continues—my alpha announcing his presence and intent with primal vocalizations that need no translation.

Minutes pass in suspended agony as I hang helpless above carnage I cannot see but can certainly hear.

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