Page 94 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

First, though, I need to clean her up properly.

The evidence of our joining marks her skin in ways that speak to successful claiming, but practical considerations demand attention to comfort and hygiene. She'll wake feeling tender enough without additional discomfort from dried fluids and uncomfortable positioning.

I gather supplies from the small bathroom area—warm water, soft cloths, gentle soap that won't irritate sensitized skin. The task feels intimate beyond mere necessity, an act of care that extends our bonding beyond the sexual into the nurturing territory that true mates occupy.

Her breathing doesn't change as I begin my gentle ministrations, cleaning away the evidence of our passion with reverent thoroughness.

She trusts me completely in this vulnerable state—body lax with satisfaction, defenses abandoned in sleep.The gift of such trust humbles me in ways I struggle to articulate even in private thought.

Each careful stroke of the cloth reveals unmarked skin beneath the evidence of our coupling.

No bruises mar her flesh despite the intensity of our joining—testimony to control I somehow maintained even in the throes of claiming fever. She'll be tender tomorrow, no doubt, but unmarked save for what her body willingly accepted.

The sight of my seed still seeping from her well-used channel creates an almost overwhelming urge to wake her for another round.

Six years of deprivation doesn't dissipate easily, the omega scent in the air continuing to trigger responses that transcend rational thought. But exhaustion weighs heavily in the set of her shoulders, the deep relaxation that speaks to complete satisfaction and desperate need for recovery.

I force myself to focus on care rather than desire, on nurturing rather than claiming. There will be time for more passion once we've escaped these institutional walls and found genuine safety.

For now, she needs rest and recovery from what proved to be an overwhelming experience for us both.

The task of dressing her sleeping form requires delicate maneuvering—lifting limbs without waking, sliding fabric over skin still flushed from exertion. The clean clothes fit perfectly, suggesting measurements taken during her previous unconscious state.

The thought of institutional personnel handling her while she lay helpless sends rage coursing through my system, but I force such darkness aside.

She's mine now, officially and completely. Whatever happened during previous captivity becomes irrelevant beside the present reality of our bonding.

No one will touch her again without going through me first—a prospect that would prove fatal for anyone foolish enough to attempt it.

Once she's dressed in soft cotton that won't irritate tender skin, I turn my attention to my own appearance.

The institutional uniform feels strange after hours of skin-to-skin contact, fabric creating an unwelcome barrier between us even in sleep. But practical considerations demand coverage, demand preparation for whatever challenges await beyond this sanctuary.

I'm in the process of adjusting the uniform shirt when an odd scent reaches my nostrils—something that doesn't belong in our carefully contained environment.Chemical undertones that speak to institutional interference rather than natural occurrence, artificial compounds designed for a specific biological effect.

The realization hits with ice-cold clarity just as mechanical sounds begin emanating from the bed area. I spin toward the source of disturbance, horror flooding my system as understanding dawns with devastating force.

The bed is moving.

Not settling or shifting under normal weight distribution, but actively retracting into a compartment built seamlessly into the wall structure. Mechanical precision guides the movement, hidden motors engaging with the quiet efficiency that marks high-end institutional engineering.

"No!" The word tears from my throat as I lunge toward the disappearing bed, fingers grasping for any purchase that might halt the inexorable movement. "Jinx!"

But she doesn't respond to my shout, doesn't stir despite the mechanical noise and my desperate calls.

Her body remains limp with unnatural stillness that transcends mere exhaustion—the boneless relaxation of chemically induced unconsciousness rather than natural sleep.

My fingers find the edge of the bed frame just as it reaches the halfway point of retraction, metal digging into palms as I throw my full strength against the mechanical system.

Enhanced alpha musculature strains against motors designed to overcome such resistance, tendons standing out like cables under crushing load.

"Jinx! Wake up!" I roar, knowing even as the words leave my lips that normal sound won't penetrate whatever drug-induced stupor holds her captive.

That's when I see it—a small square patch adhered to the side of her neck, barely visible beneath fallen hair but unmistakable once noticed. Medical adhesive holds it firmly in place, the device itself no larger than a standard bandage but carrying a far more sinister purpose.

Sleep-inducing transdermal patch.

The bastards had been planning this from the moment they provided clean clothes and temporary sanctuary.

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