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

30. The Doubleganger Of Truth

~NYX~

T he black gloves slide over my hands with familiar ease, the material supple and warm against my skin.

I study my reflection in the mirror, taking in the combat attire with a mix of appreciation and bitter irony.

The ensemble feels like preparing for field operation rather than willing to return to captivity.

How strange that I'm dressing for battle when I'm walking straight into the enemy's arms.

The material provides comfort I know won't last – these clothes will likely be stripped away before the van even reaches those imposing metal gates. Still, for now, I savor the warmth and protection they offer, however temporary.

If I even make it back alive.

The thought surfaces unbidden, accompanied by notable silence where the shadows usually whisper.

Their absence speaks volumes – no warnings, no hymns, no gentle reassurance. As if they too refuse to acknowledge the reality of what awaits, choosing instead to retreat into perfect stillness.

My gaze fixes on the mirror, studying changes wrought by mere days of freedom.

Two weeks – one spent unconscious during recovery, the other precious days learning to exist in this world beyond sterile halls.

Such a brief time shouldn't create such a profound transformation, yet evidence stares back at me with undeniable clarity.

The woman in the reflection barely resembles the one who escaped Ravenscroft's walls.

Though exhaustion still lingers in subtle ways, the improvement proves striking. Dark circles that once dominated beneath my eyes have faded to barely noticeable shadows. My skin glows with health born from proper nutrition and genuine care rather than clinical maintenance.

The gothic-inspired makeup – my first real attempt at cosmetics – adds dimension I never knew possible. The style suits me in ways I wouldn't have predicted, discovered through careful study of reference images and gentle experimentation.

My stomach remains empty save for morning coffee, a deliberate choice rather than anxiety-induced aversion.

No point consuming real food when it will likely make a reappearance during whatever "welcome back" reception awaits. Better to face a potential beating with an empty stomach than risk additional humiliation.

"Alright," I announce to the room, turning from my reflection to face reality.

My gaze finds Vale first, the sight of fresh tears on his cheeks sending sharp pain through my chest.

They've all been crying – evidence lingers in red-rimmed eyes and lingering tension – but his grief carries raw edges of guilt I wish I could ease.

Kieran stands beside his wheelchair, hand resting on Vale's shoulder in a gesture that offers support while clearly needing it himself. The steady squeeze of his fingers speaks volumes about shared pain and mutual comfort.

Atlas and Dante maintain positions at opposite ends of the room, their stance carrying military precision that feels appropriate for this moment of farewell. They stand like honor guard preparing the final salute, the formality somehow making this easier to bear.

I summon the best smile possible, knowing drawn-out goodbyes will only make this harder. Better to keep things simple, and clean – like removing the bandage in a single swift motion rather than prolonging inevitable pain.

"See you soon?" The words emerge barely above a whisper, my voice breaking on the final syllable that transforms the statement into a question.

Atlas's response carries the weight of absolute conviction.

"We'll be right there, causing havoc and mayhem. Until our last breath."

My attention catches on the mark decorating his neck, proudly displayed by the v-neck black shirt that defies his usual preference for high collars. The sight sends a fresh ache through my chest – he's wearing my claim like a badge of honor rather than a shameful scar.

A trophy rather than a burden.

The realization draws a watery smile as I offer a silent nod before heading toward the door. Each step carries me past their positions, giving me one final chance to memorize their unique scents:

Atlas's pine needles and leather.

Vale's rain-washed granite and wild mint.

Kieran's sandalwood and berries.

Dante's cinnamon and fresh-baked comfort.

The combination wraps around me like a farewell embrace, a final reminder that the M.U.S.E. designation they branded me with holds no power anymore. That label belongs to a different person – one who existed before discovering what genuine pack bonds feel like.

My hand finds a doorknob with steady certainty that belies trembling in my heart.

Just as fingers begin to turn metal, Kieran's voice shatters carefully maintained composure.

"Fucking hell I can't do this shit!"

I glance back to find him already halfway down the hall, moving with desperate speed that carries him several steps before he freezes mid-stride. The color drains from his face as if he's seen ghosts materialize before him.

"What the fuck?" His voice carries notes of confusion and dawning horror. "W-Why?"

Confusion furrows my brow as I try to understand his reaction. The question barely forms in my mind before he speaks again:

"Nyx. There's two of you again."

The words trigger confusion, sending ice through my veins even as my mind struggles to process the implication hidden in that single word.

Again?

Time freezes as I turn toward the open door, reality fracturing around what should be impossible.

The woman standing there could be my reflection, if mirrors could age their subjects by decades and polish every rough edge into deadly elegance.

Her baseline teal green hair falls past her waist in loose curls that speak of carefully maintained luxury rather than my own experimental ombre. The style gives her an ethereal quality, each strand catching light like liquid silk.

Where my coloring shows signs of Ravenscroft's attempts at categorization, hers carries deliberate artistry that transforms unusual shade into a mark of distinction.

The black dress she wears clings to her frame with expensive precision, the material flowing like water over curves that time has somehow enhanced rather than diminished.

Every movement speaks of practiced grace, from the subtle shift of fabric to the way her heels catch light with an unmistakable quality that screams wealth beyond measure.

But it's the tattoos that truly catch my attention – intricate designs that wind their way across the exposed skin of her neck and chest like living art.

Each mark appears deliberate, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration.

A single pendant rests against her collarbone, golden metal catching light in ways that seem to defy normal physics.

The symbol etched into its surface triggers something in my memory – an echo of dreams where similar markings danced through the darkness while an ethereal voice sang lullabies of comfort and protection.

The two guards flanking her maintain perfect stillness, their tactical gear, and obvious weaponry marking them as elite protection rather than mere muscle. Their focus remains absolute, scanning surroundings with military precision while carefully avoiding direct observation of the scene unfolding before them.

But it's her eyes that truly steal my breath – perfect mirrors of my own, yet carrying the weight of decades lived in full awareness rather than clinical captivity.

Wisdom earned through experience rather than torture shapes the slight lines at their corners, while power radiates from their depths with an intensity that makes my enhanced senses hum with recognition.

These are the eyes that haunted my dreams, that watched through forest shadows as death circled ever closer.

These are the eyes that shed tears for my fall while tactical gear and sniper rifle marked their owner as something far more dangerous than a mere observer.

My mouth opens but words fail completely.

What question could possibly encompass the magnitude of this moment? What response could bridge decades of separation and silence?

She saves me from the attempt, her voice carrying notes that strike deeper than mere sound.

"Nyx Blackwood."

The name emerges weighted with emotion, her eyes beginning to glass over despite an obvious attempt at control.

"Good thing we stopped you on time."

"Who?" The question slips out small and uncertain, though part of me already knows the answer will shatter whatever reality I thought I understood.

"Astraelle Blackwood." Each word falls with precise impact, reshaping my world with every syllable. "CEO and leader of all the SubDivision Units of The Parazodiac Nexus."

She pauses deliberately, watching shock spread across my features as implications stack up like dominoes waiting to fall.

"It would be best if we go inside to discuss the next steps that must be taken," she continues with careful precision, "especially with your subdivision of Alphas involved."

The world seems to tilt on its axis as understanding begins to dawn.

"Did you just say the Leader of all Subdivisions of The Parazodiac Nexus?" Kieran's voice breaks through my stunned silence. His hand finds mine, pulling me back against his chest in a protective gesture that speaks of an instinctive need to shield.

The movement allows our visitor passage as she glides into the house, her guards closing the door to take up position outside.

"Yes," she confirms without hesitation. "Which is precisely why I'm here. We'll need your help to plan an operation to take down Ravenscroft permanently. The action was supposed to commence today, but there's been a delay."

"A delay? From what?" Dante's question carries notes of suspicion while Atlas adds with careful precision: "And why are you introducing yourself now? You're Nyx's mother, aren't you?"

The truth hangs heavy in the air as she approaches the kitchen island, laying out papers with a familiar document prominently displayed on top – the contract bearing my signature.

"Yes. I have a parental association with Nyx Blackwood," she acknowledges, voice carrying the weight of years of careful distance. "Which as much as I'd love to dive into...circumstances are making it quite difficult to do such."

Her gaze finds mine briefly, emotion flickering beneath careful control.

"You're owed a proper explanation. For everything. However, a rushed apology is not one you've earned. Especially as the heir of our Blackwood foundation."

"Heir?" The word emerges barely above a whisper, confusion making my head spin.

Kieran's grip tightens slightly as he murmurs.

"Wait? She's the older twin?"

"Twin?" My attention snaps to him, my mind racing to process this new revelation.

He clearly wants to start to explain, realizing they never told me during recovery about meeting someone who looked exactly like me.

"Jinx Blackwood," my mother interrupts with careful precision. "Who's now on a mission to retrieve one of the most lethal packs that has ever been registered."

"Registered?" Atlas's question carries notes of growing understanding. "The only packs that need to be registered on the system are those who are subdivisions in Parazodiac Nexus."

"Correct." Her confirmation lands with deliberate weight. "Subdivision Zero. They're the first pack to ever become official lethal forces of The Parazodiac Nexus ten years ago."

I feel tension spike through Kieran's frame, anger flashing across his features with startling intensity.

"They've..." Dante trails off, concern evident as he watches Kieran's reaction. "They've been missing for years."

"Yes," she acknowledges simply. "And have been located. Mission to extract them was supposed to commence, however there's been an error in that execution."

"Because?" Atlas prompts with careful neutrality. "Does this have to do with Nyx returning?"

"Nyx will not be returning to Ravenscroft unless she'll be accompanying you with your mission to return to either retrieve or eliminate Subdivision Zero."

"E-Eliminate?!"

The word tears from my throat as horror spreads through our group.

"Charles Press's operation of selling, abusing, and killing Omegas needs to be shut down sooner rather than later," she continues with clinical precision. "Which is why this operation will be initiated. Because of the recent acknowledgment of forces that have voluntarily joined Ravenscroft this morning, it is too much of a risk to not interfere any longer. Which is why we must get involved and is why I'm here."

"Voluntarily?" Dante's laugh holds no humor. "Who the fuck voluntarily signs up to join Ravenscroft?"

Her response comes as a simple gesture toward the top paper on the pile.

"You tell me."

One step carries me to the island's edge where the contract lies exposed. There, next to my signature in bright pink ink, another name blazes like accusation:

Jinx Blackwood.

"Shit..." The curse escapes as my eyes find a tiny note beneath the signed line.

"Sacrifices need to be made in this world, but you've done more for me than I could have asked for. It's now my turn to return the favor.

Be free, Sister."

"Jinx Blackwood is now associated with Subdivision Zero," my mother states with careful neutrality. "It's now your team's duty to extract or eliminate depending on the circumstance of feral activity. The choice will be left to you."

She turns away, steps carrying her back toward the hallway with measured grace that speaks of years of careful control.

"Y-You're going to abandon her there?!” Dante's protest carries raw emotion that makes my chest ache. “She went there to spare Nyx!"

"It's not my duty to stop anyone from choosing their path," she declares, looking back over her shoulder to meet my gaze with the rest of my men.

The sadness in her eyes cuts deeper than any words could reach, making me wonder what history lies between her and the twin I never knew existed.

This woman who's supposed to be our Mother.

"Jinx has chosen to walk her path. Now it's her turn to tell her story and determine whether her sacrifice was worth fighting for."

Those final words hang in the air as she departs, leaving silence heavy with implications.

Though I've just gained freedom I never expected, though a happy ending seems suddenly within reach, one thought burns through everything else:

At what cost?

Jinx understood this truth.

Now it falls to me to honor the cost of that understanding – whatever price such knowledge might ultimately demand.

I swallow the lump in my throat, turning my attention back to my men as the echoing of the door closing hums through the atmosphere.

One look at each of them tells me they’ve already made their decision, but they’re giving me the opportunity to lead.

To make our choice as a pack.

"We’re going back,” I vow with affirmation. “We’re retrieving Jinx Blackwood and the Alphas of Subdivision Zero. By any means necessary.”

Survive, Jinx.

I’m coming back for you.

F.I.N.

One chapter ends, another one begins.