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The contrast between her tactical capabilities and moments of endearing vulnerability creates cognitive dissonance that somehow makes her more rather than less attractive.

A groan escapes before I can contain it, a sound carrying a mixture of amusement and desire, and protective tenderness that institutional conditioning never quite managed to eliminate despite years of dedicated effort.

She affects me in ways that transcend rational analysis or biological imperative, touching parts of my psyche that respond to connection rather than conquest.

Before conscious thought can interfere, I press her further against my shoulder and lean in to steal a kiss that tastes like freedom and feels like coming home. Her lips yield beneath mine with easy surrender that speaks to trust rather than submission, willing participation rather than forced compliance.

She melts against me with such perfect responsiveness that it takes my breath away.

How can someone so strong and dangerous become so soft in my arms?

How can this woman who fought her way through institutional hell transform into yielding warmth the moment our mouths connect?

The kiss cuts through lingering adrenaline and combat stress like nothing else could manage. My mind, which has been racing with tactical assessments and threat calculations since the moment they stole her from our sanctuary, finally quiets beneath the perfect reality of her presence and willing affection.

This is what I've been missing. What we've all been missing.

Not just physical pleasure or designation fulfillment, but the genuine connection that makes suffering worthwhile and survival precious.

The ability to care for someone and have that care returned, to offer protection and receive trust, to find peace in another person's willing embrace despite chaos surrounding us on all sides.

When we break apart, her expression carries satisfaction that mirrors my own—a small smile playing around lips still glistening from our kiss, eyes bright with contentment despite our dangerous circumstances.

"Fine," she concedes with gracious defeat that makes me want to kiss her again. "The next level is Sable's. Do you believe all of them are alive?"

The question carries weight beyond simple inquiry—hope and fear balanced on a knife's edge, faith in our pack's capabilities warring with recognition of institutional cruelty and systematic torture designed to break even enhanced subjects through prolonged application.

"If they weren't, they wouldn't be worthy of being one of our pack," I respond with conviction that surprises even me. Not bravado or false confidence, but genuine certainty born from knowledge of the men who chose to follow her strategic vision despite institutional opposition.

Her eyebrows rise at what might be construed as a callous assessment.

"You know that would be deemed horrendous to say by normal standards."

A smile tugs at my lips—a genuine expression of amusement rather than tactical performance or social necessity. She's right, of course. Normal people would find such pragmatic evaluation of survival disturbing, proof of institutional conditioning that eliminated appropriate emotional response to potential loss.

But we're not normal people.

We're enhanced subjects who chose each other through recognition of compatible damage rather than simple biological compatibility or social expectation.

"Come on then," I say, adjusting my grip to resume carrying her over my shoulder with efficient movement that makes her shriek at the sudden change in orientation.

My hand connects with her perfectly curved ass in a playful slap that surprises us both—gesture emerging from instinct rather than calculated decision, physical expression of affection and possession that feels natural despite being outside my usual behavioral parameters.

The contact sends a pleasant sensation through my palm while making her yelp with indignation that carries more amusement than actual outrage.

When did I become someone who engages in playful physical contact? When did casual intimacy become comfortable rather than threatening?

"You're only worthy of alphas who are as manic and ruthless as you are," I explain, settling into a steady pace that carries us through institutional corridors with purpose rather than aimless wandering. "Normal standards don't apply to people like us."

"I'm not manic," she protests with mock offense that makes me smile despite myself.

"Any omega willing to return to this place is just as cynical as we are," I counter, the observation carrying fondness ratherthan criticism. "That's what I know I need for my omega, and I'm confident the others will want the same. They'll be alive if that's their ultimate wish."

The conviction in my voice surprises me with its certainty.

Not hope or desperate faith, but genuine knowledge that our pack possesses whatever qualities survival demands within institutional hell. We didn't choose each other through random chance or biological accident—she selected us with strategic precision that recognized potential beneath apparent damage.

Her body relaxes against my shoulder, tension flowing from her frame as my certainty apparently provides the reassurance she was seeking.