Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. (The Parazodiac Nexus #1)

4. Forgotten Is Better Than Betrayal

4

FORGOTTEN IS BETTER THAN BETRAYAL

~KIERAN~

D uck. Weave. Strike.

The rhythm of survival.

Obstacles fly from all directions in the training room – foam projectiles designed to simulate combat conditions. Each one a potential threat.

An opportunity to prove I'm still worth something.

Still dangerous. Yes.

But a reminder I’m still alive.

My body moves on instinct, muscle memory taking over as I dodge another volley. The machines whir and click, recalibrating their aim.

Trying to catch me off guard.

They never do.

Not anymore.

Close eyes. Listen harder.

Whistle of air displacement from the left – drop and roll.

Click of launcher resetting above – spring right.

Whir of servos adjusting angle – leap back.

The predator in me purrs, pleased with each successful evasion. This is what I was built for. What the government deems as valuable as an Alpha in a demanding world where performance is everything. What the military shaped me into before everything went to hell.

Before her.

Seeing Dante earlier, lost in his own personal hell, sparked something in me. That familiar rage that never quite dies. The urge to burn everything down and watch the suits who sent us to die choke on the ashes.

They don't tell you this part in recruitment.

Don't mention the cost.

Just flash those pretty paychecks and talk about serving your country. About making your family proud. About being part of something bigger than yourself.

Dodge left. Strike right. Keep moving.

Never stop moving.

Dante was twenty-two when he joined Alpha Ops. Bright-eyed and full of dreams. Going to save the world, he said. Going to make enough money to give his little sister the life she deserved.

Now he's thirty-five, half-deaf and haunted. Jumping at shadows and fighting off panic attacks when the walls close in too tight.

And his sister?

Dead in the same bombing that nearly killed him.

Another projectile whizzes past. I let it graze my shoulder, using the sting to anchor myself in the present.

Can't afford to get lost in memories. Not during training.

Not ever.

But they come anyway.

The faces of men we served with. Good men. Strong alphas who believed in the cause. Who thought they were fighting for something that mattered.

Now they're just names on a mildly ivory wall.

If they're lucky enough to have names left.

Three more obstacles incoming. Drop into a roll, come up swinging. My body moves like a weapon, each motion precise and deadly.

Years of training…fighting…surviving.

For what?

Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging. The tattoos that cover my scars seem to writhe with each movement, ink flowing over damaged flesh like war paint.

Each of them carry a story…a reminder.

The ambush in Tehran.

That one for the firefight in Lagos.

The one over my heart for her…

Always for her.

Thirty-seven. To think that's how old I am now. Ancient by operative standards. Should have a pack by now…have pups and a mate, and a future that doesn't taste like blood and gunpowder.

Instead, I have these brothers who aren't brothers.

These damaged alphas who fight beside me because we're all too broken to fit anywhere else.

Ruined Alphas fated to die alone…

The training program cycles up to maximum difficulty. Projectiles come faster now. They’re harder to dodge and track, but the challenge has always reckons my senses.

Good.

Need the challenge.

The pain.

Anything to drown the screams ringing in the depths of my mind…

Because every time I close my eyes, I see them.

The little house on the hill.

The valley stretching green and endless.

Children's laughter carried on the summer breeze.

And her.

Always her.

She was everything I never knew I needed. An omega who saw past the killer to the man beneath. She’d look at my scars and call them beautiful. Who promised me forever with those jade eyes that never seemed to lie.

Until they did.

The memory hits like a physical blow, and I miss a dodge. The foam projectile catches me in the ribs, making me grunt in agony at the obvious mess up.

Would have been a kill shot in the field.

Focus, damn it.

But I'm already falling.

Falling back into that perfect day.

The day it all went wrong.

Sun warm on my skin.

Grass soft beneath bare feet.

Her scent – lilacs and honey – carrying on the wind.

She was perfect.

My omega.

My mate.

My future.

She even wanted to help the others. Understood what it meant to be pack. Said she could love them too, given time.

Said she could be what we all needed.

And I believed her.

God help me, I believed every word.

The training program beeps a warning.

Final stage initiating. Maximum difficulty achieved.

I let out a huff, the corners of my lips rising despite how cloudy my thought process is.

I need the distraction.

The challenge.

Anything but these memories.

Sweat runs down my chest, following the lines of ink and scar tissue. Each drop a reminder of what I've survived…and lost.

What was taken from me…

Because she didn't just leave.

She destroyed everything.

The pack bond – that fragile, beautiful thing we'd just begun to build – shattered like glass. The pain nearly killed us all. Would have, if we hadn't been so stubborn. So used to surviving things that should have destroyed us.

Now all that's left is the phantom ache. The empty space where something precious used to be. The hollow in my chest that nothing seems to fill.

A tainted mark on my neck that can’t be overwritten or removed until “I” get over the wounds it left behind.

Three more targets are incoming.

Dodge .

Strike.

Survive.

It's all we know how to do anymore.

My muscles burn with effort, but I push harder. Faster. Need to prove I'm still worthy. Still lethal in this sinister world that could thrive with someone like me contributing to the dark madness that comes with survival. In the end, I still have something left to give.

Because what else is there?

Can't go back to that dream of home and family.

Can't trust another omega with my heart.

Can't risk that pain, agony, and shame I’d gone through.

The final obstacle launches – a complex series of projectiles designed to be impossible to dodge completely. A test of prioritization. Of choosing which hits to take and which to avoid.

Just like life, love, and everything that matters.

I move through the pattern like a dance, accepting the hits I can survive, avoiding the ones that would kill. Each impact is a reminder that I'm still here.

Fighting and breathing as if my time will never run out.

The program winds down, beeping its completion, leaving me still in its wake after the intense and unpredictable routine. I stand in the center of the training room, chest heaving, sweat running in rivers down my tattoo-covered skin.

For a moment, all I can do is stare at the floor. Watch the drops fall. Remember how it felt to have hope.

To believe in something bigger than survival.

The memory of her face flashes again – those jade eyes that promised forever. The smile that said I was enough. The lies that nearly destroyed everything.

I had such dreams once.

Hopes…

Or do I dare say faith in happily ever afters?

Never again.

"Doesn't all that agility shit hurt your head?"

Vale's voice cuts through the aftermath of memory, anchoring me back to reality. I lift my head, still catching my breath, to find him perched on the sidelines.

He's trying for his usual casual sprawl, but I can see the strain in it. The careful way he holds himself. The slight tremor in his hands he tries to hide.

He's paler than yesterday.

Thinner.

More haunted.

We all pretend not to notice. Ignore when we see the way his legs shake when he thinks no one's looking. Overlook how we hear him retching in the bathroom at night when the pain gets too bad to hide.

Pretend we're not watching our brother die by inches.

"Only when I catch a rubber bullet to the skull," I say, managing a grin that feels more like a grimace. "That hurts like a motherfucker."

He's got a towel draped across his lap – the same one I always use after training. Means he knew I'd be here, working out my demons in the only way I know how.

Meaning he was waiting…watching…

Worrying.

I cross to him, deliberately casual, not wanting him to strain himself by getting up. My muscles protest the sudden stillness after such intense activity, but I ignore them.

Physical pain is the easiest kind to bear.

"What's up?" I ask, though I already know.

Can smell the antiseptic on him. See the shadow of a bandage under his sleeve where they must have drawn blood.

Vale shrugs that familiar forced nonchalance that fools exactly none of us.

"Just came from the doc, so..."

My heart clenches.

"Update?"

"Same depressing shit," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "Who gives a fuck?"

But I know what that means. Know what he's not saying.

The prognosis is worse.

The options fewer.

The end…closer.

Time, that cruel bastard we've always raced against, is winning.

My throat threatens to close up as I look at him – this man who's been my brother in all but blood for longer than I care to count. This alpha who's saved my life more times than I can remember.

This warrior being brought low by something we can't fight.

Can't shoot.

Can't stab.

Can't beat into submission.

Just a disease, eating him alive from the inside out. Starting with his legs and working its way up, determined to take everything that makes Vale, Vale .

His mobility.

His independence.

His dignity.

Eventually, his life.

The doctors said five years when they first diagnosed it. That was three years ago. Said there were treatments. Options. Ways to slow the progression.

They lied.

Or maybe they just didn't know how stubborn this particular disease would be. How determined it would be to take one of our own.

I study him as he sits there, pretending everything's fine. Notice the things he thinks he's hiding:

The way his fingers tremble against the towel.

The tightness around his eyes that speaks of pain.

The slight hunch of his shoulders as if carrying an invisible weight.

He's getting worse.

Faster now.

Accelerating toward an end none of us want to face.

The doctors have started talking about "quality of life" and "palliative care." Fucking dared encourage Hospice so he can “experience” a few months with a paid Omega to ease him into a comfortable state of acceptance with pleasure. Started suggesting we prepare for the inevitable…

Treating him like he's already gone to the afterlife.

But Vale's still here.

Still fighting…and still our brother

Even if his body is betraying him one cell at a time.

We can still fight this…

Sweat cools on my skin as I stand there, unable to find the right words. What do you say to a man who's racing against his own mortality?

Who's watching his strength slip away day by day, hour by hour?

How do you project any form of concluding emotions when sorry isn't enough and hope feels like a lie?

He catches me looking and his lips twist into something that's trying to be a smile but comes out more like a snarl.

"Stop with the funeral face," he says. "I'm not dead yet."

The 'yet' hangs between us like a guillotine blade.

"Not planning on it either," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "You know what Atlas would do to your corpse if you left him in charge."

Vale barks out a laugh that's almost genuine.

"Probably pose it in increasingly ridiculous positions just to fuck with everyone."

"Definitely would."

This is our way of easing through the hardships – jokes and deflection. Anything to avoid the reality neither of us wants to face.

The truth that's getting harder to ignore with each passing day.

I grab the towel from his lap, using it to wipe the cooling sweat from my face and neck. My tattoos ripple with the movement, years of pain and memory etched into my skin. But none of those scars, none of those memories, hurt quite like watching Vale fade away.

He shifts in his seat, and I catch the slight wince he tries to hide. Bad day for his legs, then. The pain must be worse than usual if he's letting even that much show.

"Need anything?" I ask, keeping my tone casual. He hates being coddled. Hates feeling weak.

"Yeah," he says, eyes glinting with dark humor. "A new body would be nice. Maybe something without an expiration date stamped on it."

The words hit like fists, but I force a smirk.

"Nah, you'd just break that one too. You're hell on equipment."

"True enough."

We fall into silence, heavy with all the things we can't say. All the fears we can't voice. The grief we're not ready to face.

How do you say goodbye to a brother when you're not ready to let go?

You don't.

You just keep fighting.

Keep hoping.

Pretending the end isn't coming faster than anyone expected.

And when the masks slip and the pain shows through, you pick up the pieces and carry on.

Because that's what a pack does.

Even when it's breaking our hearts.

"We might have an assignment coming up," Vale says, breaking the heavy silence. His fingers drum against his thigh – a nervous tell he's never managed to shake. "Didn't catch all the details though."

I arch an eyebrow.

"Didn't catch them, or didn't want to hear them and almost got caught by Atlas?"

A weak chuckle escapes him.

"Option two. You know how he gets when he catches us eavesdropping. That disappointed father look could freeze hell."

"Could've been worse. Could've been Dante catching you."

"Please. In his current state, I could tap dance behind him and he wouldn't notice." Vale's attempt at humor falls flat as we both remember Dante's earlier episode. "Besides, Atlas was too busy muttering about facility layouts and security protocols to notice much of anything."

My interest piques.

"Another cleanup operation?"

That's what we call them now – these missions where we storm facilities that treat omegas like lab rats. Where we put down the monsters in white coats who think having a degree gives them the right to play god.

"Probably." Vale shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position. "Seems like that's all we do these days. One fucked up research center after another."

He's not wrong.

The past year has been a steady stream of similar missions. Infiltrate. Eliminate. Extract any survivors. Avoid the acknowledgment of seeing the horror in their eyes.

Pretend we don't hear their screams in our dreams.

Sure. I was betrayed by an Omega and have a pretty strong hate to give another one a chance, but to treat these women like the bottom of scum is beyond irritational.

It’s inhuman…but then again, those who participate in such don’t have the mundane rationality. You might as well label them monsters cause only sinister pieces of shit would go so far as to hurt females who can’t defend or protect themselves.

All because they’re Omegas.

"Whatever it is, we'll handle it," I say, more confident than I feel. "That's what we do best."

Vale snorts.

"Sure. Because we're such a functional group. One guy who can't hear right, another who can't see, me with my fucking useless legs, and you with your?—"

"With my what?" I challenge, voice dropping low.

He meets my gaze steadily.

"With your ghosts."

Ghosts.

Honestly, it’s funny as fuck to label them that, but then again, haunting memories that constantly nag you to remember the past are as close to ghosts as you can label them.

That or insanity.

Either way, he’s right.

Fair enough.

"We make it work," I say after a moment. "Atlas may be blind, but his other senses are sharper than any of ours. Dante's half-deaf but he reads body language better than anyone I've ever met. You might be losing your legs, but your tactical mind is unmatched. Don’t forget your sniper skills."

"And you?" Vale asks quietly. "What's your superpower, ghost man?"

I think about the broken pack bond that still aches in my chest. About the way, it shaped, changed, and made me something colder.

More brutal and unforgiving…

"Survival," I say simply. "We all carry that superpower."

You have to label it as that in the field we’re in because at the end of the day, not everyone survives. Not everyone is given the privilege to live another day in this cruel world, despite how hard and desperately they fight to grasp those last few seconds before their heart finally comes to a standstill.

Vale is quiet for a long moment, considering.

"True enough. But our weaknesses matter too. Especially when it comes to omegas."

The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning.

Painful memories we don’t need to concern ourselves with.

"It's been years since any of us have properly interacted with one," he continues. "What happens if we get dropped into that kind of situation? If we have to extract one who's been..." He trails off, but I know what he means.

One who's been broken.

Tortured.

Turned into something both less and more than human.

Like the ones we keep finding in these facilities, looking at us with dead eyes and feral snarls. Those where we have to use those last resort techniques to give them some sort of level of peace.

Putting them down like dogs…because there’s nothing left to save.

"Doesn't matter," I say roughly, gathering my things. "Our Pack doesn't need some omega trying to worm their way in. Batting their eyes and playing sweet just to sink their claws in deeper."

I've seen it before. Lived it before. Won't let it happen again.

None of my brothers needs to go through that agonizing pain…especially Vale. It would kill him. Literally.

"Right," Vale agrees, but something in his tone makes me pause. "No need for some bitch who's going to try to sugarcoat us with some glistening pussy and empty promises."

The crude words sound wrong coming from him. Forced. Like he's trying too hard to convince himself.

"We don't need an omega," I say firmly. "Pack's in agreement on that."

Have to be.

Can't risk anything else.

I turn to leave, muscles aching from the workout, skin itching for a shower, but Vale's voice stops me at the door.

"Wouldn't be against it now, though."

The words are so soft I almost miss them.

Almost convinced myself I imagined them.

But I know I didn't.

I stand there, frozen, as the implications sink in. As I realize what he's really saying:

Time's running out.

Things are changing…but does it mean we have to change too?

Something I dare admit I am frightened of.

Because Vale's not just talking about the pack needing an omega. He's talking about wanting to see something good before the end. About leaving something behind besides war stories and battle scars.

Having a few instances with the pack filled with happiness, joyful interaction, cozy nights, and moments of pure bliss I’m sure we’ve all forgotten what it feels to be lost in.

All the things we’ve forced ourselves to be ignorant to because the reality is, that wanting such a reality hurts too much.

And we’re all tired of the fucking pain.

My hands clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I want to turn around. Wish to express something…anything.

But what can you say to that kind of truth?

What can you say when your dying brother admits he's ready for something you've all been running from?

Nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing…

So I walk away.

Pretend I didn't hear the sweet confession.

Even as my chest aches with longing, my mind dares to wonder if he’s right.

His words follow me, even as I walk down the hall, echoing over and over again like some sort of forbidden prophecy presented to us from the depths of an ancient book of hidden spells and magic.

A spellbound promise that hisses in warning, wishing a brave enough soul would have the guts to read it out loud and make the sweet dreams into reality.

Like a true promise of hope.

The frightening truth is…deep down, in the places I try not to look and feel, in the shadows where the level of truth lives...

I wouldn't be against it either.

And that terrifies me more than anything.