Page 106 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The contact sends electricity through nerve endings still sensitized from recent claiming, biological recognitionactivating despite chemical interference, and institutional manipulation.

He groans into my mouth — the sound that carries pain and relief and possessive satisfaction in equal measure. Not the controlled response of tactical engagement, but raw expression of emotion too powerful for verbal communication or strategic consideration.

His kiss consumes rational thought with devastating thoroughness, tongue claiming my mouth with possessive intensity that borders on violence.

But this isn't aggression directed at me—it's rage and madness and protective fury being channeled through physical connection, emotions too powerful for containment finding outlet through the only person safe enough to receive them.

I taste blood on his tongue—metallic evidence of combat that somehow makes the connection more rather than less intimate.

This is my alpha as he truly exists beneath institutional conditioning—predator and protector, killer and lover, monster and mate wrapped In a perfect masculine package that makes my entire body sing with recognition and need.

His hands move across my body with desperate urgency that speaks to verification rather than arousal, touching and gripping and confirming that I remain real and present despite institutional theft that tore me from bonded sanctuary.

Each contact sends fire through nerve endings already singing with pharmaceutical enhancement and remembered pleasure.

But words seem beyond him now—combat and chemical enhancement and protective fury combining to strip away verbal communication in favor of more primal expression.

The sounds he makes carry no linguistic content yet communicate perfectly through tone and intensity—possession and relief and promise of protection that needs no translation.

His mouth moves to my throat, teeth finding skin with pressure that promises marking without causing damage.

The sensation sends liquid fire racing through my system, arousal building despite uncomfortable circumstances and continued pharmaceutical interference.

Through it all, his hands continue their desperate exploration—mapping territories claimed through bonding but stolen through institutional precision.

Each touch confirms reality while promising retribution against those who dared separate bonded mates through mechanical manipulation and chemical coercion.

Mine,his touch says without words.Safe. Protected. Never again.

And in the circle of his arms, surrounded by evidence of systematic destruction undertaken for my protection, I finally believe those wordless promises with conviction that transcends rational analysis or tactical consideration.

The arena around us fades to irrelevance beneath the perfect reality of reunion against impossible odds. They stole thirty minutes from institutional time, but these moments stretch toward infinity when filled with connection that makes suffering worthwhile and survival precious beyond measure.

Home,I think, as his arms tighten protectively around my trembling form.Finally home.

TWENTY-ONE

A GLIMPSE OF NORMAL

~RIOT~

I can walk, you know."

Jinx's voice carries that particular mix of irritation and wounded pride that I'm quickly learning signals an incoming argument.

Her tone vibrates through my shoulder where she's draped like a sack of potatoes—though significantly more precious and infinitely more dangerous than any agricultural product.

The pharmaceutical haze has mostly cleared from her system during our trek through institutional corridors, leaving her alert enough to complain about my transportation methods despite her continued physical weakness.

Enhanced omega healing is impressive, but even she has limits when it comes to recovering from chemical sedation and extended suspension.

"You tried walking three times," I point out with amusement I can't quite suppress. "Where did that get you?"

Her indignant huff makes her entire body tense against my shoulder, the movement sending pleasant sensations through my combat-worn frame despite the circumstances surrounding our continued journey.

"On the ground," she mutters with grudging acknowledgment. "In a puddle. Almost off a cliff."

The last admission draws a smirk, I'm grateful she can't see from her current position. The mental image of my fierce omega nearly tumbling into an institutional drainage canal because her legs gave out mid-stride carries humor that cuts through the lingering adrenaline and combat stress like warm sunlight through storm clouds.

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