Page 9 of Hunted to Be Mine
Selina
I’d studied all night for this session, poring over Specter’s fragmented file until the words blurred. My notes were meticulous: potential trigger words, hypnosis methods, trauma-response indicators. I had a plan.
None of it prepared me for what waited behind that door.
The guard scanned his badge, the lock disengaged with a heavy click, and I entered what should have been a standard interrogation room. Instead, I found myself in something resembling an upscale hotel lounge. Leather armchairs. Coffee table. Bookshelves with actual books. A window, bulletproof glass, certainly, but still natural light streaming through.
And there was Specter, completely unrestrained.
He stood by the glass, fingers hovering over a chess knight. At my entrance, he glanced up, a slow, deliberate scan that traveled from my shoes to my face. No restraints. No guards. Just him, appearing too comfortable in a setting designed to put him at psychological ease rather than contain him.
Dawson. This had Dawson written all over it.
I kept my expression neutral as understanding clicked into place. This was a test, not of Specter, but of me. My judgment. My control. My boundaries. The commander wanted me to fail.
“Dr. Crawford.” Specter straightened, abandoning the chess piece. “They’ve upgraded my accommodations, it seems.”
I crossed to the table, setting down my leather portfolio.
“I’d like to begin with some standard grounding techniques.” I pulled out my notes. “They’ll help establish a baseline for our sessions.”
He approached one of the armchairs, lowering himself into it with easy confidence. Everything about his posture read control: the set of his body, the measured respiration, the way his attention stayed on me.
“Let me guess. Five things you can see, four you can hear, three you can touch?” His mouth curved. “I’m familiar with the exercise.”
I took the seat across from him, careful to maintain eye contact. “Then you understand its purpose.”
“Of course.” He leaned forward slightly. “Five things you can see, Doctor. Starting with how your pupils dilate when I come closer.”
My pulse jumped. I’d expected resistance, but not this rapid reversal.
“This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it?” His chair creaked as he edged forward. “Four things you can hear, including that catch in your respiration when I approach.”
The room seemed to shrink, the gap between us constricting in a way therapy doesn’t cover. Professional training urged me to redirect, to establish boundaries. Instead, I found myself listening to the soft cadence of his speech, the subtle creakof leather as he adjusted position, the distant hum of the ventilation, and yes, the betraying hitch in my own lungs.
“Three things you can touch,” he continued, dropping his tone. “Should I name them, or would you prefer to?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” The question hung there.
I steadied my respiration and reclaimed the distance. “You’re deflecting. Using intimacy as a defense mechanism to avoid actual vulnerability.”
Something shifted in his expression, a flash of surprise at my directness.
“And you’re hiding behind clinical language to avoid acknowledging what’s happening in this room.” He gestured between us. “This… recognition.”
“What I recognize is a practiced manipulator.” I met his stare despite my racing pulse. “What interests me is why you need to manipulate me when you’re the one who sought help.”
His expression shifted, tension easing slightly.
“Perhaps I’m testing boundaries to see if you have any. If you’re worth my time.”
“Or maybe you’re afraid of what happens if we actually do the work you came here for.”
That landed. His entire form went rigid, shoulders tightening briefly.
