Page 17 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The implications crystallize with perfect clarity—this man's defining trauma centers not on what was done to him, but on what he did to others through misapplied justice.

"You turned yourself in," I surmise, understanding flowing from logical progression. "Surrendered to evaluation protocols voluntarily."

A small nod confirms my assessment.

"I believed the research might prevent similar miscarriages of justice. That studying decision-making processes under controlled conditions could identify cognitive biases and systematic errors in judicial determination."

Bitterness enters his tone for the first time.

"Instead, I discovered that research served merely as pretense for experimentation focused on biochemical extraction rather than procedural improvement. By then, withdrawal was no longer permitted."

The story completes my understanding of this alpha—a man driven by principle rather than self-preservation, who values justice above personal comfort, who accepts consequences of actions even when those consequences extend beyond reasonable proportion.

Perfect for my purposes.

"In my proposed arrangement," I tell him quietly, "your judgment would serve life rather than determine death. Would build rather than destroy. Would protect rather than condemn."

Something flares in those silver eyes—hope, perhaps, or purpose rekindled after years of enforced nihilism.

"You offer redemption?" The question carries cautious interest beneath judicial detachment.

"I offer appropriate application of your unique capabilities," I correct gently. "Redemption remains your own determination to make."

He studies me with renewed intensity, reassessing calculations in light of this exchange.

"What do you call yourself?" he asks finally. "Beyond designation or family name."

"Jinx," I answer simply.

A smile touches his lips—genuine this time, reaching those silver eyes with unexpected warmth.

"Then you may call me Sable," he offers in return, the exchange of names representing a contract more binding than formal documentation. "And I accept your proposition, Jinx Blackwood. For whatever value my judgment may provide to your endeavor."

Something shifts between us in that moment—connection forming beyond mere agreement or alliance.I feel it taking root with surprising strength, omega instincts recognizing a compatible alpha despite my youth and his compromised situation.

His scent intensifies slightly, notes of rainfall and aged leather wrapping around me like invisible protection.

Without conscious decision, I step across the safety line, approaching his suspended form with measured determination.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly, no alarm in his tone despite my protocol violation.

"Sealing our arrangement," I answer, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingers.

The contact sends unexpected warmth racing through my system—nothing like the artificial heat they've induced through chemical manipulation, but something deeper and more genuine. His skin feels surprisingly soft beneath my fingertips, contrasting with the harshness of his existence here.

His eyes close briefly at the contact, something like peace crossing his features.

"It has been..." he begins, voice roughening slightly. "It has been a very long time since anyone touched me with kindness."

The admission breaks something inside me—compassion flowing past careful tactical calculation. I stretch up further, pressing my forehead briefly against his in gesture of comfort and connection that transcends our respective roles in this developing strategy.

"I will return," I promise softly. "When circumstances allow progression to the next phase."

His eyes open, meeting mine from inches away.

"I will be waiting," he answers simply, the words carrying weight of judicial oath rather than mere acknowledgment. "For however long necessary."

The researcher's voice shatters our moment with clinical intrusion.

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