Page 25 of Hunted to Be Mine
“Force of habit,” I said. “Occupational hazard of living in my head.”
“What were you analyzing?”
“The water stains. They look like a Rorschach test.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “And what do you see in them, Doctor?”
“That’s not how it works. The question is what you see.”
His gaze shifted to the ceiling. “I see poor maintenance and a likely mold problem.”
I laughed before I could stop it. “Very literal.”
“Disappointing?” The question seemed genuine beneath its light delivery.
“Unexpected,” I corrected. “But refreshing.”
“I’ve had enough of people searching for answers in my head.”
The statement hung between us, naked in its honesty. I turned to face him fully.
“Is that how it felt at SENTINEL? Like we were mining your mind for answers?”
“No.” He met my gaze. “That’s how it felt at Oblivion. You were just trying to put the pieces back together.”
“And now?”
“Now we’re both fugitives because I couldn’t find answers from my shattered mind.” His voice held no self-pity, just blunt assessment. “Ironic that you came to fix me, and I dragged you into the same broken existence.”
“You didn’t drag me anywhere,” I said firmly. “I made choices. I’m still making them.”
He watched me for a long beat, testing for lies. Finding neither, he nodded once.
“Then sleep, Doctor Crawford. We have more choices to make tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes, acutely aware of his presence inches away, his heat, the small dip of the mattress with each breath. Despitemy exhaustion, sleep seemed impossible with him so close, with danger lurking beyond our temporary sanctuary.
But my body had other ideas. The adrenaline crash hit hard, pulling me down into darkness. The last thing I registered was Specter’s steady breathing beside me.
Chapter 7
Selina
I woke with a jolt, my brain rattling through a quick checklist: unfamiliar ceiling, strange bed, foreign smells. The events of yesterday snapped back: the attack, the escape, the safehouse.
Specter’s name surfaced before I was fully conscious.
My hand slid across the empty space beside me. The sheets were cool, long abandoned. I sat up and scanned the small apartment, but the stillness confirmed what I already knew. I was alone.
The doctor in me took over, analytical even before fully alert. I examined the sheets where he’d slept, dragging my fingers over the fabric. No blood. No seepage from his wounds. That was something, at least; the stitches had held, and if he was out and about, the infection hadn’t set in overnight. Good.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I paused to listen. The building hummed with low morning sounds: water pipes groaning, a distant radio, someone’s muffled footsteps above. But nothing immediate. Nothing threatening.
I moved to the window, and parted a thin gap between the faded curtains. Outside, Munich wore winter: gray sky, concrete facades, pedestrians hunched against the cold. No obvious surveillance. No tactical teams. Just everyday people hurrying to everyday jobs, unaware of us.
One blunt truth settled: we were fugitives.
Yesterday, I’d been Dr. Selina Crawford, respected psychological expert. Today, I was a woman with no credentials, no identification, no protection beyond what Specter could provide. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I felt unnervingly calm, as though some part of me had been preparing for this fall from grace my entire career. Ridiculous.
