Page 75 of Hunted to Be Mine
Back to analysis. Not the man I’d touched. The operative he’d been made to be.
“Enhanced conditioning,” the files had said. “Trauma response integration. Memory compartmentalization.”
Munich. The way pastry filling had triggered the children, and he’d snapped from lover to killer in a breath. How empty his eyes had become as his hands closed around my throat.
My fingers rose to where the marks used to show. Faded now. Not forgotten.
What else was buried in him? Which words, images, or sounds could flip him into something I couldn’t reach?
“I don’t always know who I am,” he’d told me in the dark. “Sometimes I wake up and have to remember which version is real.”
I crushed the empty bag and tossed it toward the trash can. Missed. The sound was too loud in the quiet.
Three hours, twenty-five minutes.
What if Kruger had managed to get the trigger out before the sniper dropped him? He’d been mid-sentence when the round hit.
I went to the window and eased the thin curtain back. The sky was completely dark now. Streetlights turned rain-slick pavement into yellow patches. A couple hurried past, bent to the cold. A taxi crawled by, roof light on.
No sign of Specter. But honestly, would I even notice him sneaking back in?
I rested my forehead on the cool glass and tried to sort my thoughts. The professional and the personal kept shoving at each other—the doctor who knew the implications of his conditioning versus the woman who’d whispered his name with his breath warm against my neck.
I’d crossed a line I couldn’t step back from. On the train, with his arms around me, it had felt right, like the only honest choice. Whatever was broken in him answered something solitary in me. I reached for it anyway.
The truth wouldn’t budge: I’d lost objectivity. I was invested in a way that violated everything I’d ever enforced. And worse… I didn’t regret it.
Three hours, forty minutes.
I returned to the sketch and traced the path he would’ve taken. Fifteen minutes on foot, he’d estimated. Even with careful recon, he should’ve been back.
Unless something derailed him.
Or someone nudged him off course.
The thought hit low and hard. Maybe Oblivion had assets here we didn’t know about. Maybe someone recognized him and used the right words.
He’d described it to me: trapped behind glass, watching his body move without him. The terror when he came back and realized his hands were on my throat.
“I couldn’t stop it,” he’d said. “I was screaming inside but couldn’t make my hands let go.”
Three hours, forty-seven minutes.
I breathed in and forced focus. Panic wouldn’t help. Delays happened. He could have found something worth a closer look. Or he might be making sure no one followed him back. He could be fine.
I sat on the edge of the bed. The old springs protested. The drawing blurred as my eyes burned.
Before I knew it, I grabbed the burner and dialed Mattie. The connection clicked and buzzed while I counted rings. One. Two. Three.
“Dr. Prieto’s phone.” Not Mattie. A deep, formal male voice.
Despite everything, I smiled. “Damon? Why are you answering Mattie’s phone at…” I checked my watch. “Eleven at night?”
A beat of silence. “Security protocol. All communications are monitored during active operations.”
“Uh-huh.” I leaned against the wall, feeling the wallpaper peel under my fingers. “You two joined at the hip now? Or just the phone?”
A low grumble. “Dr. Crawford, this is a secure line intended for—”
