Page 36 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Until suddenly, it doesn't.

Pressure against my chest. Lips against mine, breathing life where there was none. Pain explodes through my system as water forcibly exits my lungs, my body convulsing with desperate need for oxygen.

I return to consciousness with violence—coughing, gasping, clawing at the rocky shore where I've somehow been dragged.Each breath burns through damaged throat, but the agony carries sweet confirmation of continued existence.

I'm alive.

Blinking water from my eyes, I find myself staring at a figure kneeling beside me. The alpha from Level Minus One—the one they call the Scarred Saint—watches me with an intensity that transcends normal concern.

His body bears the evidence of why they gave him that designation.

Burns cover most of his visible skin, creating patterns of scar tissue that map suffering beyond imagining. Yet despite these markers of past agony, his movements show no hesitation or limited mobility.

If anything, he moves with more fluid grace than alphas whose bodies remain unmarked.

He's also completely naked, his clothes apparently lost to the river's fury. Rivulets of water trace paths down defined musculature, highlighting the contrast between burned tissue and untouched skin.

"Why?" The question emerges as barely audible rasp. "Why save me?"

His head tilts slightly, considering the question with unexpected depth. When he speaks, his voice carries surprising gentleness despite its rough texture.

"Because you were falling."

Three words.

Simple.

Direct.

Yet somehow carrying profound truth beyond their syllables.

Not because I was some valuable research subject or because he needed an omega to complete pack dynamics. Simply because I was falling, and he could catch me.

"You shouldn't have," I manage, struggling to sit upright as my body protests every movement. "You've ruined everything. They'll find us now. Take us back."

His expression shifts minutely, something that might be amusement touching the corners of his mouth.

"They have to catch us first."

A distant shout from the ridge above confirms the continued pursuit. Guards visible as tiny figures against the sky, pointing toward the river's course. Their voices carry faintly on the wind, orders being issued and coordinates shared.

My rescuer rises with fluid grace, water sluicing from scarred skin as he extends a hand toward me.

"Can you walk?"

The question seems absurd given our circumstances. I've nearly drowned, been separated from my carefully assembled pack, and now face recapture by forces with superior numbers and resources. Walking seems the least of our concerns.

Yet something in his steady presence suggests possibilities beyond immediate defeat. This alpha radiates certainty that transcends our desperate situation—as if the game hasn't ended but merely entered a new phase I haven't yet grasped.

"I need to be stronger," I whisper, the admission slipping out before I can contain it. "Smarter. Better. This shouldn't have happened."

His scarred hand remains extended, neither withdrawing nor demanding.

"Then we'll work on that. After we survive today."

The simplicity of his response carries unexpected comfort. No false reassurance or empty promises—just acknowledgment of current reality and determination to move beyond it.

My fingers close around his with surprising strength, accepting both his help and the unspoken alliance it represents.As he pulls me effortlessly to my feet, realization crystallizes with perfect clarity—this is the final alpha I need.

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