Page 107 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Not that I'd ever mock her for it.

The fact that she's conscious and coherent enough to argue represents a miracle enough, given what they put her through with that sedation patch. But her stubborn insistence on independence despite obvious physical limitations strikes me as endearingly characteristic of the woman who voluntarily returned to this institutional hell for our sake.

I'm not used to showing emotion—positive or otherwise. Not that I'm against it, exactly, but six years of systematic conditioning designed to eliminate human response in favor of tactical efficiency doesn't disappear overnight. The institutional programming runs deep, creating automatic suppression of anything that might be construed as weakness or vulnerability by observers looking for psychological leverage.

Yet something about her presence makes those barriers feel less necessary. Like maybe expressing amusement or concern or even affection won't immediately result in those emotions being weaponized against me through careful manipulation and strategic psychological pressure.

Is this what normal feels like?

The thought catches me off guard as we navigate another sterile corridor lined with surveillance equipment and reinforced barriers. Normal relationships, normal interactions, normal conversations that revolve around practical concerns rather than survival calculations or tactical assessments.

A couple arguing about transportation methods.

A woman insisting she doesn't need assistance while a man provides it anyway out of protective instinct rather than controlling dominance.

Simple domestic dynamics playing out against the backdrop of institutional horror that somehow makes the ordinary seem precious beyond measure.

"When are you going to rest?" Her question interrupts my philosophical wandering, voice carrying genuine concern beneath surface irritation. "You're leaving a trail of blood."

I glance down at the concrete beneath my feet, noting the intermittent red droplets that mark our passage through institutional architecture. Some from wounds that require attention, others from injuries already healing thanks to enhanced alpha physiology and adrenaline still flooding my system.

Instances like these remind me that I’m a byproduct of their experiments as well, though it doesn’t make me feel like a superhuman Alpha of any means.

The blood loss probably looks worse than it actually is—head wounds and split lips always seem more dramatic than warranted—but I can understand her concern given the visual evidence of extended combat painting my entire body in shades of crimson and rust.

"Is it gruesome for you?" I ask, genuinely curious about her tolerance for violence given her institutional background and recent experiences watching arena combat from enforced suspension.

"Blood doesn't bother me," she responds with characteristic directness. "It's the fact that you're losing it that bothers me."

The distinction hits with unexpected force—not disgust at violence itself but concern for my wellbeing manifested through practical observation and protective instinct.

She's worried about me, specifically and personally, rather than expressing general discomfort with graphic circumstances.

I stop walking, the realization compelling pause despite tactical disadvantage created by remaining stationary in potentially hostile territory.

Her concern deserves acknowledgment, recognition of care that transcends designation dynamics or biological imperative.

"Lean back," I instruct, adjusting my grip to provide stable support while allowing her greater freedom of movement.

She complies without argument, hands finding my shoulders for balance as she straightens enough to meet my gaze directly.

The new position puts us at eye level despite height difference, creating intimate proximity that makes conversation feel more personal despite public setting and continued surveillance.

Up close, I can see the worry she's trying to hide behind an emotionless expression—micro-tensions around eyes that speak to genuine concern, subtle tightness in her jaw that suggests anxiety carefully controlled but not eliminated.

Her beautiful silver-green eyes hold depths that reveal far more than her carefully neutral features suggest.

She's genuinely worried about me.

The recognition sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with adrenaline or combat stimulation.

When was the last time someone cared about my physical condition beyond its tactical implications? When did anyone last look at me with concern for my well-being rather than assessment of my continued utility?

Institutional existence strips away such luxuries through systematic isolation and emotional conditioning designed to prevent exactly these connections. But here she is—this magnificent omega who chose to return to hell for our sake—worrying about blood loss like we're normal people dealing with normal problems rather than enhanced subjects navigating psychological warfare disguised as reunion.

"I'll rest when we reach the next level," I promise, the words carrying more weight than simple practical assurance. "I'm not confident I can fight against whatever Press has planned now that we've passed his initial challenge."

Her lower lip pushes out in what can only be described as a pout—expression so unexpectedly cute it makes my chest tighten with emotion I'm still learning to acknowledge without immediate suppression.

---