Page 110 of Hunted to Be Mine
The crooked half-smile on the train when morning light found him. His fingers finding mine in sleep, twining as if I might drift away. My name on his tongue—not Dr. Crawford, not a title—Selina, spoken like it mattered.
Then the dark rose up fast and final, and I let it take me. Unconsciousness slid in, a tide that washed away the unbearable fact of him missing from his own body.
Chapter 26
Selina
I floated in darkness, drifting through layers of awareness. It felt almost pleasant. Pain circled the edges, a patient predator. I let myself sink deeper, into the blank where nothing could touch me.
Awareness pulled at me anyway, each layer heavier than the last. My eyelids refused to lift. A sharp pinch in my arm. Cotton on my tongue. They had hit me with something strong.
Antiseptic reached me first.
The weight on my left forearm wasn’t just heaviness. A cast. The steady beeping wasn’t just any machine logging vitals.
SENTINEL. Back in their medical ward, probably. Mattie would come with gentle questions and worried eyes. Damon would lurk in the doorway, pretending not to care under that deep scowl.
Memory slammed in: the laboratory, Specter’s vacant stare, my breathless pleading, the stairwell.
My eyes snapped open. Panic surged hard enough to steal air. Blinds shut out daylight. Private room. Expensive. Quiet, aside from the monitor and the rasp of my breathing.
Two silhouettes stood watch near the exit, and my stomach dropped.
One shifted. His outline was unmistakable even in the dim light. Specter. Or what wore his face. Beside him, Blackout didn’t move at all. Both watched with the same lifeless attention.
Air wouldn’t go down. Seeing him that way crushed my chest until it felt ready to crack.
Another blast of memory: the tumble down the stairs, his screams in the garage, Dresner smiling while he carved out what remained of the man I—
The man I what? Loved? The word was a blade. I had missed my window. I failed Specter. Wolfe.
I rolled toward the wall. I couldn’t look at that hollow where he should be. Where Wolfe should be. A sob rose; I swallowed it. I was past tears, somewhere emptier.
The door opened. Light spilled from the hall. I didn’t turn. Whatever came next didn’t matter.
“Patient is conscious.” Blackout’s voice could have come from a speaker. “Vital signs stable.”
Approaching footsteps were lighter, not Dresner’s. A nurse appeared, face neutral while she checked monitors.
“Good morning, Dr. Crawford,” she said, pleasant on the surface, gaze skittering past mine. “How are you feeling?”
Silence from me.
She checked the cast, adjusted the IV, tapped notes into a tablet. “You’re very lucky. A fall like that could have been much worse.”
Lucky. I almost laughed. In what universe did this qualify as lucky?
“A break in your left forearm,” she went on. “Multiple contusions. No concussion, remarkably. The cast stays on for approximately six weeks.”
Six weeks. As if I had a future outside whatever Dresner decided.
Blackout stepped closer as she finished. “Status.”
She flinched, then steadied. “Stable. Sedation is wearing off. Pain control appears adequate. No neurological red flags.”
Her glance touched me, then slid away.
“I’ll inform Dr. Latsa you’re awake,” she said, and moved for the door. “He’ll want to examine you himself.”
