Page 191 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Would create territorial competition and hierarchical conflict that systematic cooperation depends on avoiding.

Would expose the fundamental deception underlying pack formation.

I can't answer.

Won't answer.

The mirrors show my resistance through reflection that amplifies psychological conflict and systematic suppression.

Multiple versions of myself stare back with expressions of calculated evasion and strategic deflection.

His response proves immediate and overwhelming.

Positioning shifts with Alpha authority that transforms gentle exploration into systematic dominance and territorial control.

My body finds itself pressed against an obsidian surface while his considerable presence dominates from behind with possessive precision that eliminates escape routes or defensive positioning.

The mirrors reflect our joining from every angle with technological enhancement that creates comprehensive visual documentation.

Multiple perspectives of territorial claiming and pack formation, systematic domination that serves psychological excavation alongside physical satisfaction.

His technique proves relentless in its analytical precision.

Each movement is calculated to build pleasure while maintaining psychological pressure that demands honesty rather than strategic performance or calculated response.

Physical sensation combined with systematic revelation creates an experience that transcends simple territorial claiming or designation fulfillment.

The words emerge without conscious permission.

Torn from depths where strategic facades cannot reach or influence.

The admission carries weight beyond simple preference.

“You…” I dare to whisper.

Recognition of emotional hierarchy despite careful attempts to maintain balanced investment and equal treatment across pack formation.

His breath ghosts over the back of my neck, where exposed vulnerability meets the hungry press of his body—coiled, controlled, dangerous.

“You always needed someone to see you,” Corvus murmurs, voice low and threaded with dark reverence, “Not just what you made yourself into. But the flesh and bone beneath the strategy. The trembling, calculating Omega beneath the scars and sharpness.”

His palm slides down the slope of my hip, reverent and proprietary, until it curls beneath the dip of my stomach. The other hand cups my throat from behind, not with force, but with intent—claiming the conduit between mind and body. The pulse point of everything I am.

In the mirror, I watch us.

My reflection is flushed and trembling, lips parted as if already in plea. His form towers behind mine, dark as vengeance and curved like protection. His eyes meet mine through the glass—not the deadly eyes of the Blood Prophet, but the man behind it.

The only one I’ve ever let see me break.

“I never wanted perfect,” he says roughly, dragging his lips along my shoulder. “I wantedyou.The sharp. The savage. The liar and the longing. And fuck, Jinx…” His voice catches—barely. “Your body was made for worship. For war. And for me.”

The press of his cock at my lower back makes the promise of that worship feel dangerously real.

“You'reso close,” he groans against my ear, dragging his teeth over the shell. “The scent of your Heat is already blooming in your skin, isn't it? Tempting me like you want me to fail this whole fucking mission.”

My breath stutters, thighs clenching involuntarily.

He shifts behind me, dragging my dress up with a single hand until it pools at my waist. Exposing me—my slick thighs, the soft swell of my ass, the damp between my legs. Every mirror shows it. Every single one.

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