Page 128 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Pack.

Recognition.

Safety.

The fear dissolves beneath recognition of protection offered despite enhanced violence and pharmaceutical instability, acceptance that transcends systematic conditioning to encompass genuine relationship dynamics that institutional methodology cannot quantify or control.

We’re okay. Safe. All threats eliminated.

TWENTY-SIX

THE JUDGE'S RECOGNITION

~SABLE~

The silence following the gunshot reverberates through the chamber like a death knell, yet somehow carries the promise of salvation rather than ending.

From my suspended position against the ceiling, I watch as Riot breaks the reassuring kiss that pulled Jinx back from the pharmaceutical edge where enhanced conditioning had transformed her into something approaching divine retribution.

His movement is deliberate, calculated—the same measured withdrawal I remember from tactical debriefings where every gesture carried weight beyond its apparent simplicity.

She stares up at him with eyes still bright from chemical enhancement, pupils dilated with residual adrenaline despite the keyword override that yanked her consciousness back from manic territory.

Her breathing comes quick and shallow, chest rising and falling with rhythm that speaks to biological systems still processing whatever cocktail of stimulants had transformed our strategist into weaponized chaos.

Magnificent and terrifying in equal measure.

The transformation I'd witnessed defied every parameter of the Omega designation I thought I understood.

Not submission or breeding compliance, but systematic destruction delivered with precision that made professional killers appear amateurish by comparison.

Her tongue darts across her bottom lip—a gesture so unconsciously sensual it makes something clench low in my abdomen despite circumstances that should prioritize tactical assessment over biological response.

Six years of separation, and she still affects me like a drug I never learned to metabolize.

She huffs with characteristic irritation, voice carrying that particular mix of exasperation and wounded pride that signals an incoming argument.

"So much for distracting."

The accusation emerges with familiar precision—disappointment wrapped in tactical criticism, personal concern disguised as professional assessment. She's evaluating his performance against some internal standard that apparently found his intervention lacking despite its obvious success.

Riot's response comes as a predatory smirk that transforms his blood-streaked features from protective to dangerous in heartbeat—the expression I remember from combat briefings where he'd calculate odds and find them amusing rather than concerning.

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound carrying dark amusement that speaks to a private joke between alpha and omega whose relationship dynamics have clearly evolved during my extended absence.

"Would me being naked have been a better choice at 'distracting'?"

The suggestion hangs between them with electric tension that makes my jaw clench with a territorial response I shouldn't feel given our current circumstances.

Yet something about their easy banter, the comfortable intimacy that flows beneath tactical cooperation, triggers recognition of bond development that occurred during separation.

They've grown closer. Significantly closer.

The realization carries an unexpected sting—not jealousy exactly, but recognition that pack dynamics have shifted during institutional isolation.Connections formed or deepened while I hung suspended in judicial limbo, judging strangers for crimes that meant nothing, while my packmates forged relationships I could only imagine.

Jinx rolls her eyes with theatrical exasperation that fails to mask the way her gaze lingers on his exposed torso—tactical assessment clearly appreciating what it catalogs despite professional irritation.

"Giving yourself to the enemy and potentially dying was foolish of you," she states with authority that brooks no argument, though fondness colors the criticism despite attempts at emotional neutrality. "But I'll give you a B for effort."

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