Page 111 of Hunted to Be Mine
After she left, Blackout closed the distance to my bed. “The Director has been informed of your incident.”
I met his stare—emerald and empty. At the door, the man wearing Wolfe’s body stood like a mannequin.
“Incident?” My voice came out raw. “Is that what we are calling it?”
Nothing shifted in his face. “Your fall was unexpected and disrupted the schedule.”
“How inconsiderate of me.”
“The Director is returning to address your situation. Transfer to a secure facility is delayed until his arrival.”
Ice threaded my veins at that. Dresner, coming back for me. The threat didn’t need dressing.
“I assume that’s meant to frighten me.”
“It is a statement of fact.”
I closed my eyes, fatigue pressing hard. “Where am I?”
“A public hospital. You were brought here for initial treatment. When the Director arrives, you will be moved to an Oblivion location for continued recovery and work.”
Work.
My gaze drifted toward the figure by the door. In the dim, his profile resolved: strong jaw, the set of his shoulders. The body matched the man I knew. Inside, nothing.
I curled in, ignoring the burn along bruised ribs. I couldn’t look at either of them—Blackout with that dead-green stare or the shell that used to be Specter.
“Leave me alone,” I whispered.
“That is not possible. Security protocols require—”
“Please.” The word broke. “Just… stand by the door. Don’t speak to me.”
He held still for a beat, then returned to his post. The quiet that followed hurt worse than his flat delivery.
I studied the wall and let the monitor’s steady blips wash over me. Each sound marked another second inside this trap. Another moment without the man who had looked at me with recognition, who had kissed me like I was the only real thing left.
Gone. Scrubbed clean because I had defied Dresner.
Failure pressed until I could barely inhale. I should have been smarter. I should have played along long enough to find leverage. Instead, my resistance cost him everything. He came for me, tried to pull me out, and they stripped him bare.
My chest tightened, each breath a grind. Training whispered labels—shock, trauma—urging me to focus on survival, on steps. The other part of me, the woman who’d held him through nightmares, wanted to disappear into the dark.
I retreated inward, where Dresner couldn’t touch me. Where I didn’t have to see what was left of the man I hadn’t saved. Where none of this existed.
When the Director arrived, he would face a shell of his own making. I felt beyond his reach, broken along lines he couldn’t map.
The monitor went on, counting down to his return. To whatever came. It all felt meaningless.
I had lost Specter. I had lost myself. In that loss, Dresner had won.
Sleep became an order I obeyed. Not just for the pain—the throb in my left arm, the purpled ache along my side—but for the raw wound of seeing Wolfe stand there and stare through me.
The bed held me, but rest fractured. Nightmares bled into waking; I hovered between. In dreams, I reached for him and watched him slip away.
Hours later, wet tracked from my temples into my hair. I didn’t wipe it. Why bother.
Medication tugged me under again, deeper, where edges softened and pain couldn’t find me.
