Page 107 of Hunted to Be Mine
He circled. Specter remained, eyes forward.
“No data yet on long-term effects,” Dresner went on, almost casual. “We’ve tried it on three other subjects. One died within a day. Another lasted three before complete neural collapse. The third”—he shrugged—“we’ll see, won’t we?”
I couldn’t stop staring at Specter’s face. There had been a person there. He’d kissed me on a train. He’d taken my hand in the dark. He’d remembered enough to save lives. Now, there was just void.
Tears slid without permission. I didn’t wipe them.
“Didn’t he become a fascinating research project for you, Doctor?” Dresner’s voice cut the quiet.
I took Specter’s hand. My fingers closed around his. His remained slack.
Dresner flicked two fingers. Blackout moved in beside me. “Return Dr. Crawford to the laboratory.”
Blackout’s hand locked on my arm.
As he pulled me away, I looked back. Specter stood exactly where we’d left him, waiting. Blood dried on his chin. Those smoke-gray eyes that once cut through every defense saw nothing.
Something inside me gave way. In saving me, he’d lost himself. And I’d lost him.
Chapter 25
Selina
I hunched over the laboratory desk, fingers pressing into my temples. Files smeared into one another, clinical language swimming before exhausted eyes. Subject experienced neural cascade failure. Operative demonstrated resistance to reconditioning. Words that meant nothing and everything.
My hand reached for the pen. Stopped. Reached again.
The tremor wouldn’t quit. Twelve hours since they dragged me from that parking garage. Half a day since Specter’s gaze went vacant, since his hand hung limp in mine. Since Dresner carved him out and left a shell.
I picked up the pen. Too heavy for something so small. My grip faltered and it rolled away.
“Subject demonstrates emotional attachment override.” The line scraped out of me. My voice cracked on the last word. The irony landed hard. That was us—an override, a glitch in their perfect system. Now he was just another vessel waiting for orders.
The pen felt cold between my fingers when I lifted it again. All I had to do was write. Analyze. Hand Dresner what he wanted. Maybe then I could bargain, find a way back from what they had done. If there was anything left to reach.
One note. One observation about their protocols, and maybe…
“I can’t do this.”
Behind me, Blackout shifted, the slightest redistribution of weight after hours of statuesque stillness. It sounded like a gunshot.
I turned in my chair. His green eyes tracked to mine, reading me like data.
“The Director expects progress.” His tone held no inflection, no threat. Just fact.
“The Director can burn in hell.” The words came out raw, scraped thin by crying I didn’t remember.
Something flickered across his face. Not emotion, exactly—recognition of defiance, maybe. Then nothing.
I stood too fast. The room tilted, dark flecks swarming at the edges of my vision.
The laboratory door slid open with a soft hiss. I straightened, bracing for whatever new tactic Dresner had planned. Nothing prepared me for who stepped in.
Dresner entered first, immaculate in a three-piece suit. The figure behind him froze my blood.
Specter.
Or what wore his face. The hair cut close, a clean shave. Tactical gear matching Blackout’s—black, unmarked, mercilessly uniform. His eyes hollowed me out. Gray once warm with humor, heat, fury—now flat as winter sky.
