Page 175 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

THIRTY-TWO

THE SCARRED SAINT'S CONFESSION

~ASH~

The confident smirk stretching across my face feels foreign after six years of institutional conditioning designed to eliminate emotional expression, but seeing these two bastards again—seeinghersafe in Riot's protective grip—makes every calculated risk worthwhile.

"Long time, douchebags," I repeat with genuine warmth beneath the playful insult, taking in their shocked expressions with satisfaction that borders on smug.

The acrid smell of smoke drifts up from the levels below us, carrying chemical undertones that speak to accelerants and deliberate ignition rather than accidental fire.

Orange light flickers against the stairwell walls, casting dancing shadows that transform institutional sterility into something approaching hellish.

They're going to figure it out soon enough.

Riot's nostrils flare as enhanced senses process atmospheric information, his expression shifting from surprise to something approaching suspicion.

"What's that burning smell?"

Here we go.

I can't suppress the grin that spreads wider across my scarred features.

"Funny you should ask."

Sable's silver eyes narrow with judicial precision as he catalogs visual evidence and environmental factors.

"The structural damage patterns suggest systematic ignition points rather than random combustion."

Always the analytical one.

"You set the fucking fires," Riot states with recognition rather than question, enhanced senses detecting chemical residue that confirms my involvement in the destruction spreading below us.

My confirmation comes with pride rather than apology.

"Every goddamn one of them."

The admission hangs in the smoky air between us while they process implications and tactical consequences. Riot's grip on Jinx's unconscious form tightens protectively, Alpha instincts responding to potential threat despite pack recognition.

Time for honesty, even if it makes me sound like a territorial psychopath.

"Word spreads fast in this place," I explain with characteristic directness that bypasses diplomatic consideration. "Enhanced subjects retrieving Omega designation, combat trials completed, advancement through security levels—institutional personnel love their gossip."

The moment I'd overheard that casual comment about Patient #496's voluntary return, rational thought had evaporated like alcohol meeting open flame. Six years of wondering if she lived or died, of enduring temperature chambers and atmospheric torture while she existed somewhere beyond these walls—all crystallizing into explosive recognition.

"I got tired of waiting," I continue with honesty that reveals emotional vulnerability beneath a tactical facade. "Tiredof hanging in environmental chambers while she was here, unconscious and vulnerable."

The confession carries weight beyond simple impatience.

Six years of systematic torture, of suspended existence in chambers designed to test pain tolerance through heat exposure and atmospheric manipulation. Knowing she'd returned voluntarily—that our Omega had entered this hell for purposes that transcended escape—while I remained trapped in judicial testing proved unbearable.

My gaze shifts to her peaceful form secured against Riot's back, magenta and teal hair visible through the combat gear they've equipped her with during unconsciousness. Even drugged into oblivion, she radiates the same magnetic presence that drew me to her during our original formation.

And I want dibs on holding our sweet cutie.

The territorial admission emerges without tactical filtering, Alpha instincts demanding direct contact with a pack member I've been separated from through institutional manipulation and administrative barriers.

"I want dibs on holding her," I state with conviction that acknowledges selfish motivation while expressing a genuine protective instinct. "Before judicial oversight and tactical analysis, before administrative interference—I want to carry her unconscious form through whatever trials await."

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