Page 24 of Hunted to Be Mine
Specter pulled a clean black T-shirt from our supplies and slipped it on, covering the constellation of scars. The fabric stretched across his shoulders as he moved to check the window again, peering through a crack in the curtains at the darkened street below.
“We should be safe here for a little while,” he said, accepting the protein bar I offered. “After that, we rotate locations.”
“And go where, exactly?” I leaned against the kitchen counter, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. “I’m not exactly trained for life as a fugitive.”
“You’ve done well so far.” Just facts. “Adapting quickly, maintaining function under pressure.”
“High-functioning anxiety is my superpower.” The joke fell flat even to my own ears.
He studied me for a moment. “Fear is useful when it sharpens focus without clouding judgment. You balance it well.”
Coming from him, it felt like high praise. I looked away, uncomfortable with both the assessment and my reaction to it.
“What’s our next move?” I asked, steering us back to practicalities.
“Sleep, for now.” He nodded toward the bed. “You take it. I’ll keep watch.”
“You need rest too. Especially with those injuries. And you said it yourself, we’re relatively safe for now.”
“I’ve operated on less.”
“That doesn’t make it optimal.” I crossed my arms. “We need you at full capacity, not leaning on willpower and conditioning.”
His brow lifted. “We?”
“Figure of speech.” I kept my tone neutral. “The point stands.”
“I don’t sleep well with others present,” he said after a pause.
“That makes two of us.” I gestured to the bed. “But we’re adults. We can share the space without making this complicated.”
Amusement tugged at his mouth. “Is that what we are? Adults who don’t complicate things?”
The question carried weight beyond its surface. I held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Right now, we’re survivors who need rest. Everything else is secondary.”
He nodded once, a concession without surrender. “Four hours. Then we switch.”
“Six,” I countered. “Minimum for cognitive recovery.”
“Five,” he said with finality. “And I take the side by the door.”
I didn’t argue further. Five hours was better than none, and I understood his need to position himself between potential threats and the room. It wasn’t protection, at least, not primarily. It was tactical control.
The bathroom was barely large enough to turn around in, with cracked tiles and a rust-stained sink. I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection in the speckled mirror. The woman looking back seemed like a stranger: hair askew, shadows under her eyes, a smear of someone else’s blood on her collar.
When I emerged, Specter had prepared the sofa bed and was checking his weapon. The bed springs creaked as he tested the mattress, his expression suggesting he’d slept on worse.
“I need to check the wound again in the morning.” I set my watch alarm.
He nodded, tucking the gun under his pillow before stretching out on his side of the bed, still fully clothed except for his shoes. His back remained to the wall, giving him clear sightlines to both the door and window.
I lay down on the opposite side, keeping a careful distance between us. The mattress sagged toward the middle, the dip nudging us nearer. I edged toward the outer side.
The ceiling above us was water-stained, the pattern resembling a Rorschach test. I wondered what Specter would see in those random blotches. What hidden meanings his fractured mind might extract from chaos.
“Your breathing changes when you’re analyzing something.” His voice cut through the quiet.
I turned my head to find him watching me, eyes reflective in the dim light from the street lamps filtering through the thin curtains.
