Page 140 of Hunted to Be Mine
Who was I?
The question brought more pain, like rusty nails dragging through brain tissue.
I remembered… falling. Steam. A man with silver eyes. A woman’s voice through speakers.
“Xavier Hale. Your sister Maeve is still looking for you.”
The name triggered agony so severe my body convulsed, splashing in the shallow water. Xavier. Maeve. Sister. Each word was a hot knife slicing through grey matter.
Focus. Immediate survival parameters.
I dragged myself forward using my elbows, tactical gear hanging in wet shreds around my torso. The drainage tunnel opened to the outside. Snow fell in thick, silent flakes, contrasting against the dark warehouses before me. I didn’t have to look back to know that my blood left a black trail on dirty snow.
The world tilted and spun as I assessed damage. Right shoulder dislocated. Three—no, four ribs cracked. Deep laceration across scalp. Possible concussion. various wounds and potential bruises. Blood loss approaching critical levels.
Temperature dropping. Snow intensifying. Tactical gear soaked. Hypothermia accelerating.
I needed shelter. Medical supplies. Heat.
Two conflicting impulses: hide from both Oblivion and SENTINEL teams, or signal for extraction.
No. Not extraction. They’d… hurt me again. The thought brought unexpected terror.
M-Maeve.
The name shot another wave of pain, but I held onto it. Something real in this mess of a life.
I dragged myself further from the tunnel’s mouth. Shivering had started, uncontrollable, but I pushed myself up. I had to move.
This warehouse district seemed deserted at night. Fog rolled in from the river, mixing with falling snow.
A light appeared in a third-story window across the street. Possible threat. Possible shelter.
I tried to retreat into shadows, but my damaged body betrayed me. I stumbled against metal trash bins, sending them crashing against concrete. The noise was deafening through empty streets.
Exposed. Vulnerable. Compromised.
My hand reached automatically for a weapon that wasn’t there. Lost in the water, maybe. Or during the fall. No, before that.
“Hey! You can’t be here!”
Female voice. Authoritative but not an asset. Females could not be assets. I tried to assess the threat level, but my vision kept blurring, doubling.
Footsteps approached the alley where I’d collapsed against a brick wall. A flashlight beam swept the area, catching the bloody trail I’d left.
“Oh my god.”
The voice changed instantly, professional assessment replacing annoyance. Medical training in her tone. Not law enforcement.
I tried to stand, to appear less vulnerable, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. Blood loss and hypothermia degrading motor function. I slid back down the wall.
She approached cautiously, flashlight beam illuminating my face. I squinted against the light, unable to make out her features.
“Jesus,” she said. “You need a hospital.”
Her hand reached for something in her pocket—phone, most likely.
“No hospitals,” I managed, voice rough and unfamiliar to my own ears. The words came out slurred, teeth chattering between syllables.
