Page 4 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

He moves like violence given form, each strike carrying deadly precision despite exhaustion clearly weighing on his massive frame.

Blood mats his dark hair, running in rivulets down skin decorated with tattoos that shift and dance with each powerful movement. His opponent –the nineteenth to fall– spits crimson onto the concrete as he struggles back to his feet.

"Just stay down," the tattooed fighter growls, voice carrying that distinctive rumble that makes something primal inside me respond. "I don't want to kill you over this."

"Fuck you," the other alpha snarls, lunging forward with desperate aggression. "She's mine. Ismellher calling to me!"

The tattooed fighter doesn't bother responding verbally.

His movements blur with impossible speed as he sidesteps the attack, pivoting on his heel to drive an elbow into his opponent's temple with surgical precision.

The impact resonates through the arena like a gunshot.

The nineteenth challenger crumples without another sound, body hitting the concrete with the finality of the truly defeated. The victorious alpha stands over him for a moment, chest heaving with exertion, before raising his gaze to my suspended cage.

Our eyes lock through golden bars, and something electric passes between us that transcends the clinical understanding of alpha-omega dynamics they've forced into my developing mind.

I should be terrified – this man has systematically destroyed nineteen opponents, his knuckles shredded and his tattooed skin glistening with both his blood and theirs.

Every evolutionary instinct should be screaming danger, predator, threat.

Instead, my hands grip the bars of my cage tightly as unfamiliar warmth pools in my core, my body responding to his presence in ways I have no context to understand.

"The victor has been determined!" Charles Press's voice carries through the underground arena, cultured tones at odds with the barbarity he's orchestrated. "Patient 628 has earned the privilege of first contact with our newly presented omega specimen!"

The crowd of white coats and government officials observing from raised platforms erupts in polite applause, their excitement barely contained behind a veneer of scientific objectivity.

This isn't science to them.

It's entertainment dressed as research, cruelty masquerading as progress.

My cage begins its mechanical descent toward the fighting pit, the mechanism whirring with ominous precision. Panic claws at my throat as reality crystallizes with brutal clarity – I'm seventeen years old, trapped in a body that's suddenly betrayed me, about to be handed to a man who's fought through nineteen others for the privilege of...

What, exactly?

The clinical briefings had been deliberately vague, designed to maintain my ignorance while simultaneously documenting my "natural responses" to the situation. But I'm not stupid. The way they'd examined me that morning, the clinical photographs, the invasive testing – all pointed to something that made bile rise in my throat.

The cage settles onto the blood-spattered concrete with a metallic thunk, and the gilded door swings open automatically. I retreat to the furthest corner, knees drawn to my chest as if I could somehow make myself smaller, less visible, lesspresent.

The alpha– Patient 628 according to Press– approaches slowly, his movements calculated to appear less threatening.Blood drips from multiple wounds across his body, yet he stands tall, powerful muscles shifting beneath skin that serves as a canvas for his extensive tattoos.

"Five minutes of interaction," Press announces from above. "Physical contact permitted but sexual activity restricted to preliminary bonding behaviors only. We're measuring compatibility, not breeding capacity...yet."

Yet.

Meaning inevitable.

Depending on their needs. Not mine…

The clinical words hit, each one clarifying my role in this twisted experiment. I'm not a person to them – I'm a specimen, a breeding vessel, a means to an end I can't even comprehend at seventeen.

The alpha stops just outside the open cage door, his massive frame blocking the entrance without actually stepping inside my space. His scent reaches me even through the metallic odor of blood – something unexpected,like rain-washed earth and woodsmoke with hints of something darker beneath.

It calms the fire in my blood even as it intensifies the awareness of his presence.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly, his deep voice pitched low enough that the observers can't hear.

I blink, startled by the question.

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