Page 105 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Each impact below sends sympathetic tremors through my chains, and each roar of rage or pain makes my heart race with fear for the only person whose survival matters beyond my own.

Then, gradually, the sounds begin diminishing.

Fewer impacts, less frequent vocalizations, the terrible silence that follows when only one combatant remains standing among the wreckage of systematic violence.

"VICTORY TO THE REAPER OF ROT."

The announcement booms through arena speakers with official authority that makes my suspended form sway with the sound waves.

Electronic amplification transforms a simple declaration into a pronouncement that carries the weight of institutional recognition despite circumstances that suggest anything but legitimate competition.

"THIRTY MINUTES GRANTED WITH DESIGNATED PRIZE. USE AS DESIRED."

The words send ice through my system despite building arousal—clinical terminology that reduces me to an object rather than a person, reward rather than mate.

But relief floods through pharmaceutical haze as understanding crystallizes: he survived.

Whatever hell they forced him to endure, whatever opponents they threw against his enhanced capabilities, he emerged victorious.

Mechanical sounds fill the arena as my suspension system begins its descent—chains and pulleys working with precision that speaks to frequent use rather than improvised construction.

The movement makes me dizzy, equilibrium already compromised by sedation now further disrupted by changing orientation and decreasing altitude.

Just as panic begins building at the prospect of crashing to the concrete below, the shackles release with simultaneous clicks that leave me falling freely through empty air. No support, no safety net, nothing but gravity and institutional cruelty combining to transform a victory celebration into a potential tragedy.

Strong arms catch me before impact becomes reality—familiar scent enveloping me as enhanced reflexes prove faster than mechanical precision.

The collision with solid chest drives air from my lungs, but relief overwhelms discomfort as recognition floods through chemical haze.

Safe. Protected. Home.

I force my eyes open despite sedation that makes the simple action monumentally difficult.

What I see steals what little breath the impact left me with—my alpha transformed into something beyond human recognition yet somehow still perfectly himself beneath the destruction.

Blood covers him from head to foot—some his own from wounds that would incapacitate normal subjects, most belonging to enemies who discovered too late that enhanced conditioning sometimes creates monsters even its architects cannot fully control.

Deep gashes mark his arms and torso where claws found purchase despite his superior speed and tactical awareness.

His face carries particular evidence of extended combat—split lip that still seeps red, swollen eye that suggests impacts absorbed rather than avoided, bruising across jaw and cheekbones that maps the fury required to survive impossible odds through pure determination and enhanced capability.

But his eyes burn with intensity that transcends physical damage—not the vacant stare of pharmaceutical enhancementbut focused intelligence burning beneath protective rage that has consumed rational thought in favor of primal purpose.

He sees me, recognizes me, claims me with gaze alone despite whatever chemical cocktails might be flooding his enhanced system.

I try to speak, to offer comfort or reassurance or simple acknowledgment of his victory, but words refuse to form through pharmaceutical interference and emotional overwhelm.

Instead, I reach for him with trembling hands that barely respond to conscious direction—seeking contact that might bridge the gap between thought and action when verbal communication fails.

My fingers find his face despite the shackles' restriction of movement, touching blood-streaked skin with reverent care that speaks to worship beyond tactical consideration.

He's magnificent in his destruction—predator claiming territory through systematic elimination of competition, alpha protecting his mate through application of violence that exceeds institutional expectation or control.

The need to kiss him overwhelms rational thought or practical consideration.

Despite his injuries, despite my restraints, despite the arena full of cameras documenting our reunion for whatever twisted entertainment value it provides—I need to taste him, to confirm reality through physical contact when psychological verification proves insufficient.

I pull his face toward mine with what little strength pharmaceutical suppression allows, lips finding his with desperate accuracy that speaks to a connection transcending conscious navigation.

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