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

17. Awakened By Fate

17

AWAKENED BY FATE

~NYX~

T he world stops spinning the moment his arm wraps around my throat.

Even without taking a breath, his scent envelops me completely - something impossibly rich and complex that makes every nerve-ending fire at once.

The shadows fall silent, as if they too are stunned by this unexpected intervention.

My eyes widen, desperately trying to absorb every detail of the man who just prevented my final exit.

The first thing that catches my attention is the silk blindfold wrapped with careful precision around his eyes. It's not hastily applied or temporary - the fabric sits with practiced familiarity against his skin, suggesting a long-term relationship with darkness.

Why would someone deliberately blind themselves in such a dangerous environment?

My gaze drops to his lips, finding them slightly parted as he draws quick breaths. They're not perfectly smooth like the guards who never see real action - these lips are weather-worn, bearing tiny scars that speak of real combat experience.

The subtle stubble along his jaw adds to the impression of someone who prioritizes function over appearance, the short dark hair kept neat enough for tactical efficiency without vanity.

His combat gear resembles the guards' uniforms enough to momentarily spike fear through me, but there's something fundamentally different about how he holds himself. The bulletproof vest and tactical equipment speak of serious intent, but the way his arm cradles my throat carries none of the cruel efficiency I've come to expect from Ravenscroft's forces.

The grip is present but gentle - more restraint than restriction . No guard ordered to take me "dead or alive" would show such careful consideration. Their touch always carries brutality, the casual cruelty of those who see us as less than human.

But this...this is different.

His scent hits me again, stronger this time, and I can't help but close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.

The aroma that fills my lungs defies description — pine needles warmed by summer sun, old leather well-maintained, something crisp and clean like mountain air after rain. Underneath lies a darker note, something that speaks of power carefully controlled, of strength held in perfect check.

A small sound escapes me — something between a whimper and a moan — before I can stop it. The noise seems to trigger something primal in him. A low growl rumbles through his chest where it presses against my back, the sound carrying such pure alpha dominance that every part of me lights up in response.

He leans closer, bringing his face mere inches from mine.

The heat of his breath fans across my skin, carrying that incredible scent directly to my core. No one has ever affected me like this; six years of experiments and trials supposedly stripped away my omega responses to alpha pheromones.

But this man …this alpha …somehow bypasses all their careful programming. His presence awakens things I thought long dead and ignites responses I believed impossible. Every cell in my body suddenly remembers what it means to be an omega.

To be wanted.

To be claimed.

The shadows remain silent, but something else rises in their place - instincts I never knew I possessed, desires I didn't know I could feel. My pulse races not with fear now, but with an anticipation that borders on desperation.

His proximity makes it impossible to think clearly. All I can process is the gentle strength of his hold, the intoxicating blend of his scent, and the way my body seems to recognize something my mind can't quite grasp.

It feels like standing on the edge of a precipice — not the desperate ledge I'd been poised on moments before, but something infinitely more promising. Something that speaks not of endings, but of beginnings I never dared imagine possible.

The mere idea of a potential future…the grasping hope that I’m not damaged goods like the world within these confined walls has defined me as.

I’m not a broken Omega.

I still function…

The world narrows to this moment, to the space between his growl and my next breath, to the electricity that crackles in the minuscule distance between our lips.

Every sense heightens to painful clarity, making me acutely aware of each point of contact between us.

His arm around my throat.

His chest against my back.

His breath mixing with mine.

And through it all, that scent - that impossible, incredible scent that makes me feel more alive than the years I’ve spent in captivity.

The sense of shattering inside me breaks free of years of conditioning, and I find myself leaning up toward his lips.

The initial contact is barely there — a whisper of touch that sends electricity racing through every nerve ending. That slight brush is all it takes to shatter his control.

A groan rumbles through his chest, deep and primal, before his mouth claims mine completely.

The kiss ignites something I never knew existed within me.

My body hums with a mixture of relief and awakening passion, even though our lips barely move against each other. We're testing boundaries, exploring this unexpected connection with careful deliberation.

Both of us seem aware of our surroundings — the blaring alarms, the constant threat of death lurking around every corner, the dead guards scattered across the floor like macabre witnesses to this moment.

Yet despite every reason to pull away, to remember the danger we're in, we remain locked in this first tentative kiss.

A first kiss with someone that isn’t trying to hurt me…

Doing everything to ruin me…

Then there’s a shift in him.

His restraint crumbles as he claims my mouth with desperate intensity, the roughness of the kiss making me melt further against his solid frame. Another growl vibrates between us as he deepens the kiss with obvious expertise, while I fumble to respond.

My inexperience becomes glaringly obvious — six years in Ravenscroft didn't exactly provide opportunities for romantic encounters. But rather than feeling ashamed of my naive responses, I find myself surrendering to them.

This alpha seems to recognize my uncertainty, adjusting his approach with incredible sensitivity.

He slows the kiss, letting me learn his rhythm, and allowing me to explore this new territory at my own pace. The arm that was around my throat disappeared, replaced by his hand cradling the front of my neck with impossible gentleness.

The touch carries such tenderness it almost brings tears to my eyes.

I've never known this kind of contact — the books and images I've studied showed parents holding their children with similar care, but this is different. His touch combines protection with passion in a way I can't quite comprehend. It's as if he wants to shelter me from every horror I've endured while simultaneously awakening parts of me I never knew existed.

His tongue traces the seam of my parted lips as I catch my breath, the gesture somehow both a question and an invitation. Even in this moment of heated connection, he's asking permission, letting me set boundaries I never knew I needed.

Following pure instinct, I mirror his action, running my tongue along his bottom lip.

The groan that escapes him sounds like pleasure and restraint waging war. His hand tightens slightly on my throat — not threatening, but stabilizing as if he needs to ground himself against whatever storm I'm stirring up inside him.

The shadows remain silent, but something else rises to fill that space — this primal and powerful sensation that makes me feel more omega than all the years of experiments ever allowed. Every point of contact between us burns with possibility, promise, and a connection I can't begin to understand but desperately want to explore.

If we’re able to survive this…

His scent wraps around me like a physical embrace — pine and leather and mountain air all mingling with something darker, something that speaks of power carefully controlled for my benefit. The combination makes my head spin and makes my body respond in ways I didn't know it could.

Here, in this room of death and violence, surrounded by evidence of everything wrong with my world, I find myself experiencing what feels impossibly right. As if I had merely forgotten what it feels like to experience, and in this instance, all the reasons I had that gun pressed to my head mere minutes ago.

The kiss continues, a perfect balance between his expertise and my discovery, between his restraint and my awakening desire. Each brush of his lips, each careful touch of his tongue, each controlled breath between us — it all builds into something that threatens to consume us both.

I should be afraid.

Wary of this stranger who stopped me from ending everything. Any sane person would question why an Alpha would show such care for an omega he doesn't know — especially one as broken and useless as me.

But with his taste on my tongue and his scent in my lungs, I can't bring myself to doubt…

There’s no way of forcing myself to pull away.

Nothing I can do but surrender to this unexpected revelation of what connection can feel like.

His hand on my throat feels like an anchor keeping me from drifting away into the darkness that nearly claimed me. His kiss feels like a promise I don't dare name but desperately want to believe in.

For the first time, I feel a pulsing rejuvenation that’s beyond survival.

Beyond pain and threatened refuge.

I feel like an omega discovering what it means to be wanted.

Means to be protected with the daring hope of what it could be like to be claimed.

Even if this moment is all we have — even if death finds us in the next breath — I want to drink in every sensation. Want to memorize every detail of how it feels to be touched with purpose instead of cruelty, to be held with passion instead of clinical detachment.

This could be Death’s cruel joke to tease me before the end, but if it is, I’ll enjoy every second of it because this is what I’ve craved for all these years and moments.

A simple taste of what it’s like to be an Omega.

His tongue slips past my lips with careful precision, testing and exploring as if waiting for any sign of hesitation. Far from wanting to pull away, I lean further into his touch, silently begging for more. He reads my wordless request perfectly, deepening the kiss with a skill that makes me dizzy.

The fact that he can interpret my body's signals so effortlessly amazes me.

After years of being surrounded by guards who saw me as nothing but a number, who had the advantage of sight but never saw me as anything worth noting, this blind alpha understands my every subtle movement.

An unwelcome thought intrudes — would he still want me if he could see me? Would his desire dim if he knew what years of experiments had done to my appearance? The thought makes me tense involuntarily, my muscles going rigid with sudden anxiety.

He responds immediately, gentling the kiss before growling against my lips.

"Don't fret, Omega. Relax ."

The command in his voice, somehow both authoritative and tender even through his breathlessness, sends fire racing through my veins. Something inside me liquefies, and I feel an unfamiliar rush of wetness between my legs.

My core clenches with need I've never experienced, an ache so profound it makes me tremble. Without underwear beneath the thin medical gown, there's nothing to hide the evidence of my arousal. Slick trails down my inner thighs, and I know it's only moments before his enhanced alpha senses detect my response to him.

Panic starts to build — will he be disgusted that a strange omega is getting so worked up over a simple kiss? Will he be embarrassed by my obvious inexperience, my body's desperate reaction to the first gentle touch I've known in years?

My mind spirals with possibilities, each worse than the last.

For the first time, I understand why the shadows always sang to me — their voices would have drowned out this cascade of doubts and fears.

The kiss breaks suddenly, leaving me gasping for air.

My lungs burn, but it's nothing compared to the fire racing through the rest of my body. I'm trembling, but not from fear — this is something entirely new, something that makes me feel simultaneously powerful and vulnerable.

"Are you wet for me, Omega?" His whispered question carries such heat it makes me shiver. His voice is pitched low, intimate as if sharing a forbidden secret despite our solitude. The private nature of his inquiry, the way he makes it feel like we're the only two people in existence, pulls an honest response from my lips.

"Yes," I whisper back, matching his quiet tone.

The admission hangs between us, charged with possibility and uncertainty.

I've never done anything like this before, never experienced these sensations or navigated these waters. Part of me fears admitting my inexperience — would it make him stop? Would confessing my complete lack of knowledge end whatever this is building between us?

The wet heat between my legs grows more intense with each passing second, my body making its needs known despite my mind's hesitation. Every nerve ending feels impossibly alive, aware, waiting for his next move.

His scent wraps around me stronger than ever, carrying notes of arousal that make my head spin. Pine and leather take on spicier undertones, while that mountain air freshness gains a musky depth that hums for my reaction.

I should fear continuing: this situation, new sensations, and of this alpha who's awakened responses I didn't know I possessed.

Yet, I find myself wanting more, even though I have no idea what 'more' might entail.

The shadows remain silent, offering no guidance in this unexplored territory but their absence gives me a sense of liberation I didn’t think I needed. A moment that belongs solely to sensation, discovery, and whatever happens when an omega who's never known tenderness meets an alpha who seems to understand her without words.

His lips trail against mine with delicate precision while he presses his forehead to mine, both of us struggling to catch our breath.

An intercom crackles somewhere, a voice calling for "Atlas," but he ignores it completely.

The connection between us feels too precious to break for mere communication.

Is his name Atlas? A name that makes me feel as if he’s giving me a sense of direction.

With subtle guidance, his hand encouraging me to rise, I follow his lead.

The way his touch traces down my body suggests an intimate knowledge of every curve and hollow, despite never having touched me before. When I turn to face him, the height difference strikes me immediately - my 5'3" frame feels distinctly diminutive against his towering presence of well over six feet.

He stays perfectly still as I press against him, an unspoken invitation to explore. Unable to resist such temptation, I place my hands lightly on his chest. The bulletproof vest blocks direct contact, making me yearn to trail my fingers across bare skin instead.

I keep my movements deliberately slow, understanding that his blindness likely enhances his other senses to acute levels.

My own experiences with sensory deprivation taught me how the body compensates — touch becomes electric, hearing sharpens to crystal clarity, and scent tells stories sight never could.

Consciously steadying my breathing, I try to convey security and comfort through my body's signals. The sense of safety I feel in his presence defies logic, given our dire circumstances, yet it feels undeniably real.

My hands venture upward, tracing the strong column of his neck before cupping his cheek.

When my thumbs brush lightly across his blindfold, his breath catches audibly. The gesture might seem presumptuous or territorial, but fascination drives me forward. Never have I been able to study an alpha this closely, not as a specimen but as an equal whose presence ignites rather than repulses.

"You...don't...hate me?"

The question escapes before I can stop it, carrying years of accumulated pain and rejection.

Instead of words, he answers by cradling my cheek in his massive palm, fingers sliding into my hair to hold me steady as he captures my lips in a kiss that speaks of reverence and want.

The moan that escapes me gets lost in his mouth as he suddenly shifts our positions, pressing me against the wall.

My legs wrap instinctively around his waist while my arms struggle to encompass his broad chest. The size difference becomes even more apparent — his frame radiates pure power, all solid muscle and imposing breadth.

Yet it's the way he kisses me that steals my breath completely.

Each press of his lips carries such desperate need, such absolute conviction as if I represent everything he's ever desired. The realization hits hard - I nearly denied myself this experience.

Death would have stolen this electricity between us, this pure addiction of desire and connection.

My fingers dig into his shoulders as the truth settles deeper - I almost pulled that trigger without knowing what it meant to find an alpha who instinctively understands my orbit, and who makes every cell in my body sing with recognition.

Perhaps this magnetic pull between us masks elaborate deception.

Maybe these sensations merely sugar-coat inevitable betrayal.

But the raw energy crackling between us awakens an unprecedented will to survive, to fight whatever challenges arise; to claim more moments like this where existence feels transcendent rather than torturous.

His kiss deepens as if sensing my thoughts — determined to prove that what builds between us carries more substance than mere desperate fantasy.

Each touch, each shared breath, each subtle shift of his body against mine writes promises my battered heart desperately wants to believe.

Breaking apart when our lungs scream for air, his words rush out against my lips with fierce intensity.

"Fuck no," he whispers, the vehemence in his tone making me shiver. "Who dares hate you? Should I get rid of them?"

His mouth traces the corners of my lips before blazing a trail of tender kisses down my neck.

The sensation makes my back arch involuntarily, pressing closer to his solid frame. He holds me effortlessly, as if my weight means nothing, as if keeping me in his arms fulfills some primal need.

"Everyone...here. I'm..." The words catch in my throat, fear building at the thought of revealing my identity.

How do I tell this alpha who's shown me such tenderness that I'm nothing but a failed experiment? A weapon they created but couldn't fully control?

"Speak to me, omega. I won't harm you, nor will I judge you."

His reassurance comes with the press of his forehead against mine - a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as his way of grounding us both. The physical connection speaks louder than words, offering comfort through touch in a way that makes my heart ache.

This tenderness, this care, this way he treats me like precious treasure rather than dangerous cargo - it feeds a hunger I never knew existed. Each gentle touch helps heal wounds I didn't realize still bled.

"Patient..." The designation sticks in my throat, my lips trembling with the effort to force out the truth. Fear of shattering this magical connection makes the words even harder to speak.

His lips find mine again, the kiss carrying reassurance and acceptance I've never known. When he pulls back, his words strike deep.

"Your real name, omega. Not what those who hurt you label you as."

The statement hits like a physical blow. I've lived so long with their designation, their number, their carefully crafted identity for their perfect M.U.S.E. that I'd almost forgotten the name written in my file. The name that belonged to me before Ravenscroft stripped everything else away.

A lump forms in my throat, threatening to silence me forever, but buried strength surfaces from somewhere deep inside. From that place the shadows usually sing, from that core of self they never quite managed to destroy.

"Nyx," I whisper, the name feeling foreign on my tongue after so long. Then, gathering every scrap of courage I possess, I add, "Nyx Blackwood."

The name hangs between us like a live wire, charged with possibilities and dangers I can't begin to calculate. This alpha now holds more than just my body in his strong hands — he holds my truth, my identity, my most carefully guarded secret.

His continued gentleness, the way he cradles me against him as if I'm infinitely precious rather than potentially lethal, makes the risk feel worth it.

For the first time in six years, I've chosen to trust. Chosen to believe that not every touch brings pain.

Not every connection leads to betrayal.

The shadows remain quiet, but their silence feels approving rather than ominous. As if they too recognize that this moment marks a turning point — a choice between remaining their carefully crafted weapon or daring to become whatever this alpha sees in me.

His scent wraps around me like a protective shield, carrying notes of acceptance and desire that make my head spin. The mix of pine and leather and mountain air gains sweeter undertones, as if his very essence celebrates my trust in sharing my true name.

I wait for his reaction with bated breath, every muscle tense despite his reassuring touch. Years of conditioning make me expect rejection, revulsion, or fear. Makes me brace for the moment he realizes exactly what — who — he holds in his arms.

But his grip never wavers.

His touch remains gentle yet firm, grounding me in this moment of vulnerability. His breath mingles with mine as we share this suspended instant between confession and response.

For the first time since entering Ravenscroft, I feel real. Not a number, experiment, or weapon.

Just Nyx — a name I'd almost forgotten belonged to me, an identity I'd nearly lost beneath layers of their careful programming.

His acceptance of that name, that truth, that core of self I've kept hidden for so long, means more than any kiss. More than any touch. More than any physical pleasure his presence ignites.

It means he sees me.

Truly sees me, despite his blindness.

Sees past their labels and designations to the woman beneath.

This instance is the birth of what I was about to sacrifice:

My fated destiny.