Page 147 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"She's most definitely not your Fated M.U.S.E."

The acronym carries weight beyond simple designation denial to encompass existential challenge regarding purpose and systematic meaning within enhanced subject conditioning and institutional reality.

Manipulated. Used. Sacrificed. Experimented.

The words that define institutional methodology and systematic treatment of enhanced subjects through chemical conditioning and psychological manipulation disguised as scientific research and tactical improvement.

Press exits with administrative finality that suggests conversation conclusion and systematic termination of professional interaction.

The chamber door seals behind him with pneumatic precision that restores isolation and systematic separation from institutional authority and administrative oversight.

Silence returns with weight that feels almost physical after extended conversation and systematic threat assessment.

My smile builds with gradual precision as genuine emotion overwhelms judicial suppression and systematic conditioning.

Not practiced performance or systematic compliance, but authentic satisfaction that emerges despite circumstances designed to eliminate emotional response and systematic connection.

The expression reaches full intensity as understanding crystallizes regarding strategic implications and tactical developments beyond administrative comprehension.

I begin humming with quiet satisfaction that speaks to intellectual appreciation for systematic complexity and institutional vulnerability.

The melody carries no specific recognition—merely tonal expression of building anticipation and strategic recognition that transcends immediate circumstances to encompass broader philosophical satisfaction.

My thoughts form with crystalline clarity as judicial assessment processes tactical intelligence and systematic revelation.

And now you're about to be proven wrong...

THIRTY

BETWEEN SLEEP AND DESIRE

~JINX~

Consciousness returns slowly, like emerging from deep water where each layer of awareness brings me closer to the surface of wakefulness.

The first thing I register isn't sight or sound, but warmth—a cocoon of body heat that surrounds me from both sides with protective intensity that makes my muscles relax despite the lingering aches from my recent seizure.

My front side nestles against solid muscle and familiar skin, the steady rhythm of breathing beneath my cheek confirming Riot's presence even before my eyes flutter open. His arms encircle me with possessive security, one hand resting against my lower back while the other cradles my head with surprising gentleness for someone whose reputation centers on systematic destruction.

Behind me, another presence presses close—Sable's larger frame molding against my spine with judicial precision that somehow manages to feel both protective and intimate. His arm drapes lazily around my lower waist, fingers splayed across my stomach through the soft fabric of what I realize is an oversized t-shirt that definitely doesn't belong to me.

The garment carries a complex scent signature that makes my enhanced senses catalog each component with automatic precision. Riot's distinctive musk—leather and gunpowder with undertones of something uniquely Alpha that speaks to controlled violence and protective instinct. Layered beneath that, Sable's more sophisticated signature—aged paper and storm clouds with hints of judicial authority that somehow translates into olfactory certainty.

But it's how their scents blend together that creates something approaching intoxicating rather than simply appealing. The combination mellows each individual signature while enhancing specific notes that speak to compatibility beyond simple biological attraction. Riot's earthier tones ground Sable's more intellectual signature while his analytical coolness tempers the raw edge of Riot's more primal markers.

They're both wearing nothing but boxers.

The realization hits with clarity that makes heat pool low in my abdomen despite the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. Enhanced senses detect the minimal fabric barrier between skin and skin, the intimate positioning that speaks to trust and comfort rather than simple tactical necessity.

My body feels like I've been hit by institutional machinery—head pounding with the familiar aftermath of pharmaceutical seizures, muscles aching from the violent muscle contractions that accompanied neurological breakdown. Yet somehow, surrounded by their combined presence and wrapped in their mingled scents, the discomfort feels manageable rather than overwhelming.

The memory surfaces unbidden—the first time we'd been forced to share sleeping quarters during our original navigation attempt.

Six years ago, we'd arranged ourselves like hostile cats forced into the same territory, each maintaining maximum distancewhile still technically occupying the same space. Riot had positioned himself near the entrance with tactical efficiency that prioritized threat assessment over comfort. Sable had claimed the far corner with judicial precision that suggested careful calculation of optimal positioning for observation and rapid response.

I'd ended up in the middle, hyperaware of every movement and sound as we attempted rest while surrounded by Alphas whose loyalty remained theoretical rather than proven. The tension had been thick enough to cut—three enhanced subjects thrown together by circumstances rather than choice, trusting each other only marginally more than we trusted our institutional captors.

Now years have passed, differences set aside through shared experience and systematic bonding that transcends simple tactical alliance.

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