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"I'm a Fated M.U.S.E. just like my sister," I continue, the acronym sitting heavy on my tongue. "Manipulated. Used. Sacrificed. Experimented upon."

His expression shifts minutely—micro-reactions that would be invisible to standard observation yet register with perfect clarity to someone trained to read the smallest indicators.

"My family sold us both to this program before we were even born," I explain, the words carrying the weight of a painful truth I rarely acknowledge even to myself. "Our unique genetic markers made us perfect candidates for whatever twisted research Press was conducting. They received generous compensation in exchange for surrendering their daughters to institutional control."

Anger flashes across Riot's features—swift and hot before being carefully contained behind controlled neutrality.His hands resume their gentle massage of my shoulders, encouraging continued disclosure through physical comfort rather than verbal response.

"The life outside Parazodiac was..." I search for words that might adequately describe the gilded cage that constituted my sister's existence. "Controlled in different ways. Luxury prison rather than institutional confinement. Private schools and personal shoppers and carefully managed social appearances—all designed to maintain the illusion while preventing any genuine connection that might reveal the truth."

Water streams between us, creating an ephemeral barrier that somehow makes confession easier rather than more difficult. The white noise of the shower provides a perfect backdrop for secrets usually kept carefully guarded behind tactical facades and operational necessities.

"My parents continue receiving payments for their silence and compliance," I add, bitterness coloring words despite attempts at emotional neutrality. "Living in luxury funded byour suffering. But once I get out of here with my alphas—with you—that all ends."

His hands move from my shoulders, trailing down my arms with deliberate slowness that sends pleasant shivers across sensitized skin.

The touch carries a possessive quality that alpha designation typically manifests through aggressive display or territorial marking, yet his version holds surprising gentleness beneath dominant intent.

"They won't profit from us anymore," I whisper with quiet determination. "The whole system collapses once we're free."

Riot's expression carries perfect understanding beneath surface assessment, recognition flowing between us that requires no additional verbalization or explicit explanation.

His fingers trace patterns across my skin—not random movements but deliberate caresses that map territory with meticulous thoroughness.

"Tell me about this M.U.S.E. program," he requests quietly, genuine interest evident beneath tactical information gathering.

I lean into his touch as he reaches for the soap, his hands creating lather that he begins applying to my body with careful attention to injured areas. The sensation of being washed by another person carries unexpected intimacy—vulnerability transformed into connection through mutual trust and shared purpose.

"Manufactured Unique Sensory Enhancement," I explain, the institutional terminology flowing with practiced ease despite years spent avoiding direct acknowledgment of program particulars. "They identified certain genetic markers that suggested heightened perception and potential psychic abilities. Started a breeding program to create children with specific combinations they thought would enhance these traits."

His hand stills momentarily against my collarbone, surprise evident despite careful control.

"Breeding program?" The question emerges with barely contained anger.

"Not like you're thinking," I clarify quickly. "They didn't force physically incompatible people together. But they did...encourage certain couples through financial incentives and social manipulation. Tracked bloodlines for generations, looking for particular genetic combinations."

His touch resumes its gentle exploration, spreading soap across my back in circular motions that soothe tired muscles while maintaining careful distance from open wounds requiring more cautious treatment.

"The Blackwood lineage carried markers they considered particularly valuable," I continue, eyes drifting closed as his fingers work magic against tense shoulders. "When my parents produced twins—identical in appearance but divergent in cognitive development—Press considered it a research goldmine. Perfect opportunity to study nature versus nurture in a controlled environment."

Understanding dawns in Riot's expression—recognition of experimental methodology beneath institutional deception and clinical terminology.

His hands move lower, tracing the curve of my spine with deliberate thoroughness that sends pleasant tingling through nerve endings typically programmed for combat assessment rather than sensual appreciation.

"They separated us early," I whisper, the admission carrying the weight of a painful truth rarely acknowledged even in private thoughts. "Kept my sister in a luxurious external environment while subjecting me to institutional conditioning and enhancement protocols. Wanted to see how differently we'd develop despite identical genetic makeup."

Riot's growl carries genuine outrage beneath carefully controlled volume, not performing anger for my benefit but expressing an authentic emotional response to institutional cruelty.

The sound vibrates through the small space with surprising intensity, creating almost a physical presence between rising steam and cascading water.

"The experiment succeeded beyond their expectations," I add with a bitter smile that holds no genuine humor. "We developed completely different skill sets and psychological profiles despite sharing identical DNA. Nature versus nurture demonstrated with perfect clarity through twin subjects—exactly what institutional research parameters sought to establish."

His hands resume their gentle washing, moving from my back to my arms with meticulous attention to areas requiring more careful handling.

The soap creates a slick barrier between calloused fingers and sensitive skin—the contact simultaneously cleansing and arousing in ways that defy simple categorization or conventional description.

"When I met you the first time," I continue, voice dropping lower as memory surfaces with visceral clarity, "I was supposed to be nothing more than a research subject demonstrating omega response to alpha proximity. But what happened between us transcended institutional parameters or experimental methodology."

His chest presses against my back as his arms encircle my waist—not aggressive restraint but a gentle embrace that offers support without demanding submission. The contact sends electricity racing through nerve endings already sensitized from combat and proximity, biological response activating beneath tactical awareness with intensity that defies control methodology or suppression protocols.