Page 12 of Hunted to Be Mine
When he staggered against the surface, I rushed forward instinctively, catching his arm to steady him. His weight settled against me, his face pressing into my shoulder.
“I’ve got you.” Professional training overrode caution.
His respiration stuttered against my neck, his grip curling into the fabric of my blazer. We remained frozen, too intimate, not clinical, not anything I wanted labeled, held there by crisis and his weight.
“Should I call for medical?” My free hand already reached for the alert button.
His grasp tightened on my arm, halting me. “No.”
That single word carried too much clarity for someone in neurological distress. I stiffened, suddenly aware of how effectively he’d maneuvered me into physical contact.
“You’re faking this.” The realization came with both anger and grudging admiration for the tactic.
His form tensed against mine, exposed in the lie. Then low laughter rumbled through him, which enraged me.
I pulled back, fury replacing my professional composure. The betrayal stung. This manipulation, followed by amusement.
“We’re done for today.” I reached for my portfolio. “I’ll have the guards escort you back to your cell.”
His grasp encircled my wrist before I could retreat, the pressure calculated: firm enough to halt my escape but careful not to bruise. The precision in that contact told me everything about his training.
“Don’t go.” All traces of laughter vanished. “Not when we’re finally getting somewhere interesting.”
I tried to pull free, but his hold adjusted, maintaining that careful pressure. “Release me. Now.”
“You didn’t report our kiss.” His tone dropped low and measured. “That reveals more about you than any of those files you’ve been studying about me.”
“It shows I’m professional enough to recognize a tactical error without needing oversight.” I kept my delivery steady despite the anger coursing through me. “Now release me before I call security.”
His thumb brushed against my pulse point, a deliberate, intimate gesture that sent electricity through my nerves. “What would they do, I wonder? Restrain me? Drug me? Would Commander Dawson come running to make sure his precious asset wasn’t damaged?”
“That’s what this is about?” I stopped struggling, studying his face. “You’re examining SENTINEL’s response protocols?”
A smile ghosted across his lips. “Among other things.”
Before I could respond, he yanked me forward abruptly and pressed his mouth to mine. His lips worked against mine with practiced skill, as though he’d mapped every pressure point that would undermine my resolve.
I shoved hard against his chest, breaking free. “Damn you.”
He seized my wrist again, holding me in place as his eyes locked onto mine. “You tasted like rage, Doctor.”
The words hung between us, both observation and challenge. Something about the phrasing triggered professional warning bells: too deliberate, too focused on sensory input. But before I could analyze it further, his expression changed.
His pupils dilated and his eyes widened in genuine alarm. The controlled precision vanished from his face, replaced by confusion. His hold on my wrist loosened as his whole frame tensed.
“I…” He gasped, his free palm pressing against his temple. “Something’s wrong.”
This wasn’t manipulation. His respiration became ragged, muscles spasming under his skin.
“Specter?”
He didn’t answer. His knees buckled, and I barely managed to support him before he hit the floor. His form jerked against mine, head snapping back as a convulsion ripped through him.
Seizure. A real one this time.
I lowered him to the floor, training overriding every other concern. “I need medical in Interview Room C! Now!”
I rolled him onto his side in recovery position, rapidly assessing the room for anything he might hit during the convulsions. His frame arched against my palms, muscles rigid and taut.
