Page 108 of Hunted to Be Mine
I gripped the edge of the desk to keep from swaying.
“Good morning, Dr. Crawford.” Dresner adjusted his cufflinks, then gestured to the two operatives flanking him. “I thoughtyou might appreciate seeing the results of last night’s demonstration.”
I couldn’t look away from Specter, searching for a curl of the man I knew. Perfect stillness, posture a mirror of Blackout’s.
“I have business that requires my attention elsewhere today.” He smoothed a nonexistent crease. “Blackout and our newly improved Specter will ensure your productivity in my absence.”
At the threshold, he paused. “I expect significant progress by my return, Doctor. The consequences of further defiance… Well, you know now what I’m capable of.”
The door sealed behind him, quiet as a breath, leaving me alone with Dresner’s twin monuments to obedience.
I forced my attention to the files. The ink blurred, meaningless. My gaze drifted back. Specter hadn’t moved since stepping in, standing at parade rest. Eyes fixed above my head.
“Specter?” His name lodged in my throat, thin and ragged.
No blink.
I pushed up on unsteady legs and took a step. “Specter, it’s me.”
His gaze didn’t track. No flicker of awareness. Nothing.
Clinical thought collided with raw need:
Pupillary response within normal range. Breathing regulated. No micro-expressions.
No. Stop. This isn’t a subject. It’s Specter. The man who kissed me and took his time about it. Who saved children. Who fought his conditioning.
I moved in close, near enough to touch. My hand hovered beside his face, not quite committing. “Can you hear me at all? Wolfe?”
Not even a quiver at his real name. The name that once sent him into seizures meant nothing now.
“They said the Reset Protocol was experimental.” The words came out low, more confession than question. “Neurological damage can’t be permanent. There has to be a way to undo this.”
I pivoted to the desk, desperation focusing me for the first time all day. The files had to hold something—recovery protocols, reversal pathways, anything. Paper rattled under my hands as I flipped, unable to land on a single page.
“Come on.” My breath snagged. “There has to be something.”
The first warning signs crept in quietly: tightness under my sternum, fingers refusing precision. Clinical recognition arrived a beat too late—panic building. Even knowing what was happening didn’t stop it.
Pressure hammered in my chest. I pressed my palm to my breastbone, trying to regulate each inhale.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
I couldn’t finish the first cycle before lungs demanded more.
The white walls seemed to contract. Had they always been this close? I shoved back from the desk. The chair’s scrape was loud against the floor. Air. I needed air.
I staggered to the window, feet uncooperative. My fingers clawed at reinforced glass that didn’t give. I knew it wouldn’t open; I’d tried every day this week. Reason fled, drowned by the animal need to be anywhere else.
“I can’t…” I gulped shallow breaths that went nowhere. “I can’t breathe.”
Behind me, Blackout shifted again, almost imperceptible. “Return to your assignment.”
I set my forehead against cool glass, trying to ground. “Water.” The word scraped out. “I need water.”
Neither of them moved.
I turned, leaning on the pane. Specter and Blackout stood in matching stances, watching with the same vacancy. Twins in programming, if not blood.
