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

18. Us Against This Crashing World

18

US AGAINST THIS CRASHING WORLD

~NYX~

" S corpio," I whisper against his lips, feeling heat rush to my cheeks at my own peculiar habit.

His small smile encourages me to explain.

"I know it's strange, but I track zodiac compatibility. A Scorpio's traits match this moment - intense, passionate, drawn to the mysterious."

I hesitate, remembering my research on astrological incompatibility.

"Though some signs clash terribly with us. We're too intense, too focused, too..." I trail off, realizing I'm rambling. "I don't usually talk this much. Or at all, really."

Instead of mockery, he gifts me with his own introduction.

"Atlas. Capricorn." His thumb traces my lower lip as he continues, "They say Capricorns and Scorpios match well, though we both tend to battle for control."

That sinful smile plays across his lips before he kisses me softly.

"Makes me wonder if my little Scorpio has a dominant streak she'd like to explore."

My face burns at his words, but I refuse to retreat from the challenge in his tone. Taking initiative, I press my lips to his, thrilled when he yields to my lead.

The surrender emboldens me to wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His groan vibrates against my mouth - I can sense his restraint, his willingness to let me set the pace despite his alpha instincts surely demanding control.

This consideration sets him apart from every other alpha I've encountered, marking him as uniquely different.

Breaking the kiss, I wish I could see his eyes, read the truth of his enjoyment there. But his body speaks volumes — the relaxed set of his shoulders so different from his earlier tension, and the unmistakable hardness pressing against me leaves little doubt about his desire.

"This is all new to me," I confess, stumbling over the words. "I haven't...I mean, I haven't done what Omegas are supposed to know instinctively." Pressing closer, seeking courage in his warmth, I continue. "I haven't done the 'deed.' I understand the mechanics…they made us study it in clinical detail. But I've never...I wasn't chosen. Not worthy of a pack. Too disgusting for an alpha."

A growl rips from his throat, dangerous and deep. But his arms tighten protectively around me as he snarls,

"Whoever spoke those lies can enjoy a bullet through their temple."

The intercom buzzes again, another voice demanding his location and status.

He grunts in irritation before carrying me to a desk in the corner, setting me down with extraordinary gentleness. After a quick kiss, he activates the intercom.

"I'm fine. Moving soon. Kieran, meet at the van with Dante." His voice carries authority even through the static.

“What about the Omegas?”

I don’t know how much he knows about the omegas that are in Ravenscroft’s captivity, but his response sends shivers down my spine.

"Found one. Our omega. Clear the path. Any lab coats or guards get a special bullet. Understood?"

Our…Omega?

Special bullet…

Though his eyes remain hidden behind silk, I feel the weight of his attention solely on me. The words feel like a vow, a promise of protection and vengeance combined.

"Understood," Kieran replies. "We'll eliminate every single one."

Atlas's smirk carries deadly promise as he releases the intercom button, his focus returning completely to me.

That simple phrase - "our omega" - echoes in my mind, carrying implications that make my heart race and my body burn with renewed desire.

His declaration of ownership should frighten me but instead, it feels like liberation - like finally finding where I belong.

"Your pack?" I ask softly, still marveling at how easily they've penetrated Ravenscroft's defenses. "They managed to infiltrate this place so...efficiently." I hesitate, unsure how to express my amazement at his composure despite what must be significant limitations.

His lips curve slightly as he explains.

"We're one of four subdivisions currently overtaking the facility. Parazodiac Nexus Ops. This isn't our first operation. We've liberated other laboratories, and freed other omegas from captivity."

The revelation stuns me into silence while his hand traces gentle patterns across my shoulders. His touch pauses at the fabric of my stolen shirt, fingers gripping the material lightly.

"This has to come off."

Confusion furrows my brow as I glance down at the shirt.

"Why?"

Instead of answering immediately, he takes a step back. My heart lurches, fear of rejection rising instantly.

"Did I do something wrong?"

The question dies in my throat as he strips off his tactical shirt, revealing a bulletproof vest over a black tank top that does nothing to conceal the powerful muscles of his arms.

Scars mark his skin like a roadmap of survival, interwoven with intricate tattoos that tell their own stories of pain and triumph.

An unexpected kinship blooms in my chest.

Though he can't see the marks that map my own trials, if his fingers ever traced my skin, they'd find similar evidence of survival - raised scars and rough patches that speak of endless experiments and "trials."

He holds out his shirt, an explanation finally coming.

"I don't want you wearing the scent of some random alpha who isn't worthy of you."

Understanding dawns - the guard's shirt I'm wearing carries his scent, marking me with the essence of someone who contributed to my captivity.

The false claim of ownership through scent must be offensive to Atlas's alpha instincts.

"Okay," I whisper, not hesitating to strip despite our circumstances. The medical gown and stolen shirt fall away, leaving me bare for a moment before I take his offered garment. Unable to resist, I bring the fabric to my nose first, inhaling deeply.

His scent floods my senses — pine needles and leather, mountain air, and controlled power. The combination sends waves of calm through my system, settling something restless inside me that I hadn't even realized was agitated.

Pulling it on, I find myself swimming in the excess fabric. But where the guard's shirt felt like borrowed protection, this feels like being wrapped in security itself. The warmth isn't just physical — it seeps into my bones, carrying comfort I've never known.

The oversized garment hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves falling past my fingers. Instead of feeling diminished by the size difference, I feel oddly protected. His scent surrounds me completely now, marking me in a way that speaks not of possession but of shelter.

"Better," he murmurs, reaching out to adjust the collar with surprising accuracy despite his blindness. His fingers brush my neck in the process, sending shivers down my spine.

"Now you smell like you belong to someone who values you."

The possessiveness in his tone should frighten me after years of being treated as property.

Instead, it ignites warmth in my chest. Because this isn't the clinical ownership of the lab, or the cruel dominance of the guards. This is protection freely offered and consciously accepted.

His shirt feels like armor against the world that's hurt me for so long. Each breath fills my lungs with his scent, reminding me that I'm no longer alone in this fight. No longer just Patient 495, but Nyx - an omega worth protecting, worth claiming, worth saving.

My fingers play with the hem of his shirt, marveling at how such a simple gesture - the offering of his clothing and scent - can feel so monumental. In this one act, he's given me more consideration than I've received in six years of captivity.

His hands find my waist unerringly, thumbs tracing circles through the fabric.

"Now everyone will know you're under my protection," he says softly. "That you have a pack ready to tear this place apart to keep you safe."

The promise in those words, the sheer conviction behind them, makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears. Because for the first time since entering Ravenscroft, I feel like I might have a future beyond these walls.

Like I might, finally, have somewhere - someone - to belong to.

"What are we going to do now?" I glance toward the door, reality intruding on our intimate bubble. Time hasn't paused for our connection, and every second brings new danger.

"How good are you in combat?" Atlas asks, his hands trailing my body with deliberate precision until they find the gun straps on my thighs. "And can you actually use these, or are you just enjoying looking hot with strapped weaponry?"

The unexpected playfulness in his tone startles a laugh from me. I try to smother it with my hand, but his responding smirk shows he enjoys my failed attempt at containing my amusement.

"Yes, I'm aware I can't really see, but my imagination does enjoy taunting me."

The admission sends an ache through my heart.

"I can defend myself," I say softly, then find myself wanting to give him the vision he can't have. "My hair falls past my shoulders - a dark green shade with ombre highlights of magenta when the light hits it right. My eyes..." I pause, considering their unique shade. "They're ivory green with hints of teal. I think I got them from my mother. I see those eyes in my dreams sometimes, though her face remains hidden."

Realizing how much I'm revealing, I drop my gaze to my bare feet.

"I'm pretty short, and maybe look fragile because building muscle here is difficult, but I'm strong. I can fight. I can run." The words spill out faster now. "They've crafted me into their weapon. That's what M.U.S.E. means - Mentally insane, Unsatisfactory, Scentless, Excelled. I hate what they've made me. Hate this place..."

Catching myself drifting from physical description to deeper confessions, I wish to apologize.

“Uh…this isn’t going the way I wanted to express. Sorr?—”

His fingers find my chin, tilting my face upward with surprising gentleness.

"You may be the M.U.S.E. they forced you to become, but you don't need to continue being bound by their identity of you, Nyx," he whispers. "Head up high, little Goddess. In my presence, you're as worthy as a Queen that deserves to be worshipped and praised."

He steps closer, his imposing height making me feel simultaneously small and protected.

"When this is done and we're out of here alive, you're going to see how it feels to be treated like a true Omega. Loved, adored, and cherished so much that you'll never wish to aim a gun at yourself again. I can promise you that. I vow it."

His words steal my breath, offering more comfort than I dare acknowledge. He seals his promise with a kiss before pressing his lips to my forehead.

Then his head tilts, catching sounds I can't yet hear.

"We need to move. Company's coming."

Turning toward the door, he takes a step forward. Before I can stop myself, my hand reaches for his - a gossamer-light touch that nevertheless freezes him in place.

He looks back slightly, giving me a glimpse of his silk-wrapped gaze.

"Thank you," I whisper, meaning deeper than words can express. "For…stopping me."

His simple nod carries volumes of understanding, but I watch the transformation happen - the tender warmth draining away as mission mode takes over. His posture shifts, tension replacing ease as he focuses on the deadly task ahead.

This is the alpha who infiltrated Ravenscroft, who leads others into battle, who will tear through anyone standing between us and freedom. The change should frighten me, but instead, it offers its own kind of comfort.

Because this lethal focus, this coiled readiness for violence - it's all directed toward keeping me safe.

Toward ensuring we both leave this place alive.

The shadows stir for the first time since his arrival, but not with their usual warnings or songs. Instead, they seem to approve of this alpha who can be both gentle and deadly, who offers both tenderness and protection.

Who sees me as more than their M.U.S.E.

"Follow my lead," Atlas instructs with quiet authority. "If you sense anyone behind us, move ahead and I'll handle them."

"Should I help with direction if needed?" The question comes naturally, though years of conditioning make me brace for rejection.

His smirk carries unexpected warmth.

"Your call. You probably know this place better than I could ever grasp."

"You won't be offended? An Omega giving directions?"

"Any Alpha who feels insulted when an Omega needs to step up into a role that a man should, proves he's insecure and hates being proven otherwise." His response carries absolute conviction. "Order me around all you want, even if I might be stubborn about some things."

My answering smirk feels foreign but right as we lock into mission mode. The gun feels natural in my grip while Atlas carries an impressive array of weaponry, ready for whatever awaits us.

Following his lead through the corridors, I'm amazed at how confidently he navigates this labyrinth despite never having been here before.

He must have memorized the blueprints extensively, which complements my intimate knowledge of these walls. Six years of captivity have burned every turn and passage into my memory.

I know the exits - not the nearest ones, but the ones most likely to lead to actual freedom rather than more elaborate traps.

Rounding a corner, we encounter a sight that makes my blood run cold - the group of lab coats who've taken such pleasure in my suffering over the years.

Their lead researcher's eyes widen in recognition.

"Patient 495?" His shock quickly morphs into that familiar cruel excitement. "She's escaping! Get her!"

Atlas's response comes in a spray of bullets, forcing our tormentor to duck while three of his colleagues fall.

The remaining two scramble for cover, drawing their own weapons, but I'm already moving. The fourth goes down to my shot while the fifth takes a bullet to the leg, his scream echoing through the corridor as he collapses.

Atlas pauses, his covered gaze turning toward me with eerie precision.

"What is he to you?"

The question takes a moment to process before understanding hits.

"He laughed every time I got tortured. Wrote notes of mockery and watched as I and other omegas that weren't so lucky suffered in chambers for hours, being tortured. I vowed to put him on a list where he'd suffer, but we don't have time..."

Before I can finish, Atlas grabs my hand and pulls me forward.

"Where's the nearest chamber you mentioned?"

The question's implications take seconds to register.

"Three doors down," I answer, memories of countless 'trials' making my voice shake.

His smirk carries deadly promise.

"You know the blueprint details."

"I'm impressed you memorized them too."

"Had to, if I wanted any chance of running blind in this hellhole."

The words come just as he drops down to grab the wounded researcher by his injured leg. The man's screams echo off sterile walls as Atlas drags him toward the chamber, leaving a crimson trail in their wake.

The sight is disturbing for any sane individual with morals and a sense of empathy, but this casual violence promises retribution.

Which is wholeheartedly deserved.

I feel a dark satisfaction watching our positions reversed. The man who recorded my torture with such clinical detachment now experiences terror firsthand.

The shadows stir with approval, their silence breaking into a soft hum of anticipation. They recognize this moment for what it is - not just escape, but justice.

Not just survival, but revenge.

Their company now buzzes in low hums, which only further empower me as we rush to the designated space which I’m sure was where they were coming from. Maybe they were wrapping up a session, thinking the alarms were just protocol or a false alarm.

Atlas's grip remains gentle on my hand even as he drags our prisoner with merciless efficiency. The contrast speaks volumes about his nature - capable of both tenderness and brutality, each perfectly calibrated to its target.

Watching him navigate with such deadly grace, I understand that his blindness isn't the weakness our enemies might assume. He's adapted it into strength, using other senses to create a perfect awareness of his surroundings.

The researcher's whimpers grow more desperate as we approach the chamber - he knows exactly what awaits inside those walls. After all, he designed many of the trials himself.

Now he'll learn firsthand what his experiments feel like.

Taking the lead through familiar corridors, I guide Atlas to yesterday's chamber - though time has become fluid since the flooding incident that changed everything. The room holds fresh memories of torture but now offers potential for justice.

"This is where he stood," I indicate, remembering the researcher's eager smirk as he watched me fight for survival. "Right there, recording notes while they tested us."

My voice remains steady as I explain the procedure:

"They fill the chamber with water, timing how long we can survive before they drain it. Then the bottom drops away - we either hold ourselves up or fall into a pit where..." I swallow hard. "Where most omegas disappear forever."

Atlas's expression remains impassive behind his blindfold, lending him an aura of emotionless judgment as our prisoner whimpers pathetically.

"Please!" The researcher begs, his earlier cruelty replaced by desperation. "This omega is lying! She's manipulating you, using herself as a pawn. I'm innocent…just an employee here. I have a family waiting at home. A daughter!"

The mention of his child makes Atlas's jaw tighten before he hurls the man into the open chamber. The researcher's cry of pain as his wounded leg hits the floor echoes off sterile walls.

"A daughter at home," Atlas's voice carries deadly quiet. "Yet every day you badge into this facility, proud to be among those who torture omegas and serve them to death. How many daughters have you watched die in these chambers?"

Terror replaces the researcher's usual clinical detachment as Atlas levels the rifle.

"It's tragic your daughter will grow up fatherless," Atlas continues, "but perhaps it's mercy. If she presents as omega, at least you won't be here to throw her into these chambers yourself."

"No! I work here to prevent that!" The man's desperation grows. "She won't be an omega…she can't be!"

Atlas's shrug carries terrible finality.

"Well, you won't be around to find out, will you?"

The gunshot punctuates his words, the bullet finding the researcher's other leg. His screams of agony bounce off chamber walls that have witnessed so much suffering.

As Atlas seals the chamber, he turns toward the control panel with unerring accuracy, sensing its looming presence.

"Would you like to do the honors?"

I fight back an inappropriate smile, knowing I shouldn't take pleasure in this revenge. But after years of powerlessness, the opportunity for justice feels like redemption.

The shadows hum with anticipation, their song carrying notes of satisfaction rather than their usual warnings. They recognize this moment for what it is — not mindless violence, but balanced scales.

Not cruelty, but consequence.

Looking at the man who recorded my torture with such scientific detachment, who treated my pain as data points in his endless research, I feel no pity. His fear now mirrors what so many omegas felt in this chamber. His desperate pleas echo those he ignored day after day.

Atlas stands beside me, his presence solid and reassuring despite the violence we're about to unleash. His hand finds mine with perfect accuracy, offering support without taking control.

Letting me choose how to balance these scales.

The control panel glows with familiar lights. I've watched them manipulate these controls countless times while fighting to survive their trials. Now I understand their sequence intimately and know exactly how to recreate the torture they so carefully designed.

The researcher seems to recognize his fate as I step toward the controls. His clinical facade crumbles completely, replaced by the raw terror he's documented in so many test subjects.

This is more than revenge - it's justice served through perfect symmetry.

He'll experience firsthand the trials he designed, feel the panic he studied so dispassionately, and face the consequences of his carefully crafted torments.

The shadows sing louder, encouraging this moment of reckoning. They understand, as I do, that some debts can only be paid in kind. Some lessons must be learned through personal experience.

Atlas's presence keeps me anchored, preventing this moment from becoming mere cruelty. His strength reminds me that this isn't about enjoying suffering — it's about ensuring consequences for choices freely made.

The researcher's whimpers grow more desperate as I reach for the controls, recognizing that his carefully constructed experiments are about to become his reality.

Justice, it seems, has a perfect sense of irony.

My fingers find the familiar sequence of controls, each button press bringing the chamber to life. Water begins to fill the space, and the researcher's panic escalates to shrill screams. I realize I don't even know his name — a fitting irony since my identity never mattered to him beyond "Patient 495."

Now he pleads about his daughter waiting at home as if parenthood should grant him immunity from consequences.

The audacity of it burns in my chest.

How many parents waited for omegas who never returned from their experiments? How many families did he destroy while carefully documenting their loved one's final moments?

The water rises with mechanical precision, just as it has countless times before. But now I stand on the other side of the glass, watching someone else's desperate struggle for survival.

The researcher takes that final gasp of air before the chamber fills completely, and I know with clinical certainty that he won't last nearly as long as we were forced to.

His legs trail blood in the water, the wounds hampering any attempt to brace himself for what's coming. But I want him to feel it — that desperate burn in his lungs as they scream for oxygen he doesn't deserve. That primal panic when your body betrays you when survival instinct wages war against conscious control.

He manages barely a minute before the struggle becomes visible - his composed researcher's facade crumbling under the weight of real experience. Just as his mouth opens to gulp that first deadly breath of water, I press the button to halt the submersion.

His gasping relief draws a dark smile to my lips. Because I can see in his wild, fear-filled eyes that he knows what comes next. He understands with perfect clarity that his wounded legs won't save him from the drop into that endless pit — the abyss where so many omega bodies lie forgotten, their decomposing forms a testament to his "scientific pursuits."

My hand hovers over the final button as an unexpected moment of hesitation strikes.

Would showing mercy make me better than him? Would sparing his life prove I've retained something he lost long ago?

Atlas's arm wraps possessively around my waist, his solid presence pressing against my back with grounding strength.

"Did he give you mercy when you needed a moment of redemption?"

I tilt my head up, finding his lips set in a firm line of judgment.

"No," I whisper, the word carrying years of accumulated pain.

"Then he doesn't deserve your empathy. He hasn't earned that grace." Atlas's words carry absolute conviction. "His regret comes only because death knocks at his door, not from true understanding of his crimes. He would never have offered you the same mercy you consider extending to him." His grip tightens slightly.

"Seek the revenge you and all those fallen omegas deserve, little Goddess."

The title sends warmth through me even in this moment of darkness. His approval, his support, his understanding of why this matters — it steadies my resolve.

With a nod of finality, I press the button.

The researcher's face registers pure horror in the split second before the floor drops away. His scream echoes up from the pit, growing fainter until silence reclaims the chamber.

The shadows sing a victory hymn in my mind, celebrating this moment of balanced scales. One tormentor facing the fate he dealt so casually to others.

One debt paid in the currency of perfect justice.

Atlas's continued embrace keeps me anchored in the present, preventing me from losing myself in the darkness of vengeance. His strength reminds me that this isn't about becoming like them — it's about ensuring consequences for choices freely made.

Watching the empty chamber, I feel no regret. No guilt. Just a cold satisfaction that one more monster has faced judgment for his crimes. One more debt has been paid in full.

The water drains away, leaving no evidence of what transpired except for faint traces of blood. How fitting that this chamber, designed to hide evidence of omega deaths, now conceals the fate of one of its creators.

"Time to move," Atlas murmurs against my hair, his tactical focus returning. But his arm lingers around my waist for a moment longer, offering comfort even as we prepare to face whatever awaits us beyond this room.

I take one last look at the chamber that featured in so many of my nightmares. It holds no power over me now. Its horrors have been turned back on its creator, its purpose perverted to serve justice rather than torment.

Let his daughter wonder what happened to him.

Allow his family to feel the uncertainty that plagued so many omega families.

May his disappearance become another of Ravenscroft's unsolved mysteries.

The shadows hum their approval as we turn away from the chamber. Their song carries notes of satisfaction and anticipation — one debt paid, but more justice yet to be served.

Because somewhere in this facility, more tormentors await their reckoning. More monsters hide behind clinical masks and scientific justifications. More debts remain to be collected.

Atlas's arm finally releases my waist, but his presence remains solid beside me.

With one final glance at the chamber, we decide to move. It’s not long before we’re back in the hallway, and heading toward the nearest exit we both can recall from my experience and his memorization of the blueprints.

Running beside Atlas toward promised freedom, my focus narrows to each turn, each corridor that brings us closer to escape.

The path ahead represents everything I've dreamed.

Of freedom…

But a scent hits me with such force I stumble to a stop, my heart racing with recognition.

The aroma floods my senses, triggering memories I'd thought lost to their careful programming. That impossible blend of scents - identical to something I caught years ago, moments before entering the white van that delivered me back to this hell.

The same scent that accompanied those striking blue eyes I glimpsed from afar, watching me disappear into captivity.

Smelling it again makes me realize I hadn’t imagined such a unique scent.

That it wasn’t a figment of my inventiveness.

"Nyx?" Atlas calls, sensing my sudden stillness.

His tone carries concern, but I can't find words to explain the way this scent pulls at something deep inside me, awakening memories I'd convinced myself were merely dreams.

Before I can try to articulate the storm of emotions coursing through me, the intercom crackles with urgency.

"Atlas! Problem. Vale's missing." Kieran's voice carries barely contained panic.

The tension in the corridor spikes instantly as that familiar scent grows stronger — a foundation of fresh pine sap and sun-warmed granite, layered with crushed alpine herbs and wild mint. Underneath runs a current of sterile iodine and surgical steel, creating an unusual contrast between wilderness and medical precision.

The combination is rounded out with hints of leather worn smooth by mountain winds and traces of eucalyptus.

It wraps around me like a physical force, drawing me toward its source with an inexorable pull.

Atlas presses the intercom, his jaw tight with concern.

"Is the injector there?"

"Empty."

"Motherfucker never listens to me," Atlas growls in frustration.

The words carry layers of history, of shared battles and stubborn defiance.

But I'm already running back the way we came, drawn by instinct and that magnetic scent. Atlas calls after me, his voice torn between command and concern, but I can't stop — not when everything in me says the source is close. One turn away. Maybe two. Three at most.

The facility's alarms increase in pitch, warning of escalating danger. The sound should frighten and remind me of all the times similar alarms preceded new torments.

However, they fade to background noise as I follow that compelling scent through Ravenscroft's maze-like corridors.

My enhanced senses — another "gift" from their endless experiments - track the aroma with predatory focus. Each turn makes it stronger, clearer, and more impossible to resist. It calls to something primal in me, something their tests and trials never quite managed to destroy.

My feet carry me swiftly around corners until I skid to a stop at the entrance to a dead-end hallway. The sight before me freezes the breath in my lungs and makes time seem to crystallize around this moment of recognition.

A masked figure leans against the wall, chest heaving with labored breaths. The mask sits pushed up on his head as if hastily moved aside for air.

Blue X's glow eerily from its surface, casting strange patterns on the sterile walls, but it's his exposed face that steals my breath completely.

He lifts his head, perhaps sensing my presence, and our eyes meet across the distance. Recognition explodes between us like lightning striking twice — because I know those blue eyes.

They've haunted my dreams, my memories, my fragments of a life before Ravenscroft.

This is him.

The alpha from that autumn day.

The one who watched me disappear into captivity.

The one whose scent has been impossible to forget, even through years of their attempts to strip away my omega responses.

I can’t comprehend why he’s here, but I realize his survival falls in my hands.

There are only two options here.

Pretend I didn’t see him and walk away, or alert Atlas and get him the potential help he may need. It’s an odd predicament to be in because I wholeheartedly am not sure which path to choose.

To stand and slowly walk away without interfering with fate…

Or go against what I’ve learned and harbored over the years and act upon the moral desire to aid an Alpha in need…

The universe, it seems, has a peculiar sense of irony.