Page 28 of Hunter

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Hunter,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage.

Once again, his face softened for a moment at the use of his name. Then his fierce expression was back in place, still challenging her. “Give me reasons to trust you. Why was I taken to the guest cottage and told to wait in the bedroom for further orders? What are you doing here with me?”

She couldn’t hide her shock. “They didn’t tell you anything?” she asked.

When he shook his head, she hastened to explain. “Dr. Kolb thought that if you and I spent some time together, I could teach you things you need to know.”

“What am I supposed to learn from you? Are you a weapons expert?”

She laughed, feeling a tiny glimmer of relief from her tension. “No. I’m a psychologist.”

“Why do you keep—coming to me?”

“I—” She swallowed. “I was hired to teach you socialization skills. Things you need to know to get along with other people. We would have started working together sooner, but some of the people here were against it.”

He made a snorting sound. “They pretend they are all united, but they all have their own—agendas.”

She nodded, surprised by his perceptiveness. Yet he continued to surprise her. For a man with no memories, he was functioning on a very sophisticated level.

“You asked me to pick a name. Why do you care about that?” he suddenly asked.

“Everyone has a name. You need the same things other people need.”

“Do I? What are those things?” he asked thoughtfully, as if he were considering the concept for the first time.

“People need to feel good about themselves. About their jobs. Their lives. They need to do things that make them happy. They need to love and be loved.”

“I am good at my job. I do not need the rest of it,” he answered, his tone blunt.

The denial—both the words and the staccato way he delivered them—tore at her. “What have they done to you?” she asked in a strangled voice.

He shrugged. She had come to hate that shrug.

But it wasn’t as disturbing as his face, which looked as bleak as it had been in the video—when he’d lain beside the water tank, half drowned. He’d reached out for help, and no one had come to him. Not this time. Gently, she laid her hand on his arm.

Around them, the wind roared, and she knew the storm would break any moment.

His muscles flexed, yet he didn’t pull away. He’d said he never lied. Maybe not about facts. Yet despite his rough denial, she was utterly convinced that he needed the same things other people needed. She was equally sure he had long ago given up trying to ask for them.

She might have held him and rocked him the way a mother rocks a child. But he wasn’t a child. He was a strong, dangerous man, trained in the craft of violence. And she needed to know more about him. Without breaking the physical contact, she went back to another topic he’d avoided earlier.

“Why won’t you tell me about your assignment? About Project Sandstorm?”

“I cannot.”

“You took an oath of silence?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

He dragged in a deep breath and let it out in a rush as he looked at her. “There are questions you should not ask me.”

“Why?”

“You said you are my friend. I want—” He stopped abruptly, and she understood that admitting he wanted anything from her was still too big a risk.

The knowledge made her throat ache. It seemed he had secrets, things that he didn’t want her to know because he thought she would think less of him. But that was good, she silently added. It meant he wasn’t as closed up as he pretended.

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