Page 95 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Every gesture of consideration, every apparent kindness had been calculated setup for this moment of separation when our guard would be lowered by satisfaction and exhaustion.

The chemical scent I'd detected must have been the patch activating, delayed release, ensuring it wouldn't take effect until after our bonding was complete. They wanted documentation of a successful alpha-omega pairing before implementing whatever next phase of their twisted experiment.

My grip on the bed frame begins to slip despite my desperate effort to maintain hold. The mechanical system proves stronger than individual resistance, an inexorable force designed to overcome any single subject regardless of enhancement or desperation.

Metal edges slice into my palms as leverage fails, blood making purchase impossible to maintain.

The jerking movement as my grip gives way sends fresh waves of panic through my system—helpless terror of watching my newly bonded omega disappear into institutional machinery designed specifically for such theft.

"JINX!"

Her name echoes off institutional walls as the bed completes its retraction, sealing into the wall compartment with pneumatic finality that leaves no trace of opening or access point.

The mechanical sounds fade into silence, broken only by my ragged breathing and the thundering of blood in my ears.

I stand alone in the room that moments ago contained everything precious in my world. The space feels cavernous without her presence, walls closing in with psychological pressure that threatens to crush rational thought beneath overwhelming rage and despair.

They've taken her.

After six years of separation, after finally reuniting and bonding completely, after tasting the perfection of true connection—they've stolen her away again with clinical precision that leaves me powerless and furious in equal measure.

Sinking panic rises from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, primal terror of losing the one thing that gives existence meaning beyond mere survival.

The biological imperative that drives alpha nature screams against separation from my newly bonded mate, chemicalsignals flooding my system with responses designed to facilitate rescue or die trying.

But rage burns hotter than panic, fury at institutional manipulation that treats bonded pairs like laboratory specimens rather than sentient beings capable of genuine connection.

They've violated something sacred, stolen what was freely given and carefully nurtured through years of separation and systematic torture.

The room around me transforms into a cage rather than a sanctuary, walls becoming barriers to reaching my omega rather than protection from institutional horror. Every surface bears witness to what we shared—her scent still lingering in the air, evidence of our coupling marking sheets they haven't yet removed.

Yet she's gone, taken while I was distracted by afterglow and satisfied exhaustion.

Drugged into unconsciousness and spirited away through mechanical systems designed specifically for such theft. The clinical precision of it speaks to extensive planning, careful orchestration of events leading to this moment of separation.

My fists clench until knuckles crack, blood from torn palms dripping onto institutional flooring with a steady rhythm that marks time passing without action. Each drop represents another second of separation, another moment my omega spends in institutional custody while I stand helpless in this empty room.

They think they've won. Think they can manipulate biology and emotion like variables in a controlled experiment, that bonds formed through genuine choice can be severed through simple physical separation.

They're about to learn how wrong such assumptions prove when faced with an Alpha, who has nothing left to lose and everything precious to reclaim. The rage building in my chestcarries the promise of violence that will make my previous designation as "Reaper of Rot" seem like a gentle nickname rather than an earned title.

The hunt begins now.

And when I find the bastards responsible for this theft —when I track down every person who participated in stealing my omega from our bonded sanctuary— they'll discover exactly why institutional conditioning failed to break me despite six years of systematic torture.

Some things burn too hot to be extinguished.

Some connections run too deep to be severed by mechanical precision and chemical manipulation.

Some bonds transcend institutional categorization to become something approaching divine mandate—and heaven help anyone foolish enough to interfere with what the universe itself has ordained.

The empty room bears witness to my vow as rage crystallizes into purpose, as panic transforms into deadly certainty.

They've taken her, but they've also awakened something in me that institutional conditioning never quite managed to eliminate despite their best efforts.

The beast they created through years of systematic torture has finally found something worth protecting.

And God help them all when I come to collect what's mine.

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