Page 30 of Hunted to Be Mine
Selina
The kiss deepened, his mouth insistent against mine. My fingers curled into his shirt as his hands spanned my waist, lifting me a fraction. With a quick shift, he turned us, pressing my back against the counter. I felt the edge dig into my spine, but couldn’t bring myself to care. That instinctive part of me, the part I’d been denying since first seeing him, finally acknowledged the truth: I’d wanted this from the beginning.
His palm slid beneath my shirt, heat searing against my lower back. I lost my breath’s rhythm as his lips traced my jaw, then my neck, finding the pulse there. My brain split in two: the doctor cataloging his technique, the woman surrendering to it.
“Specter,” I said, not sure if I meant to stop him or urge him on.
Three sharp knocks at the entry shattered the moment.
We froze, mouths still a breath apart. Every trace of desire vanished from his expression, replaced by cold focus. His fingersfound his gun before I registered him moving, his body angling to shield mine.
“Behind me.” He moved toward the entrance in quiet, controlled steps.
I ducked behind him, heartbeat hammering for entirely different reasons now. My mind spooled through worst-case scenarios: Oblivion’s tactical team, SENTINEL’s retrieval unit, local police. No matter who waited on the other side, we had nowhere to run.
Specter reached the door in complete silence, weapon held low against his thigh. He pressed his eye to the peephole, body coiled. I watched his shoulders, waiting for the signal to run or hide.
Instead, they lowered.
“Stay calm.” His tone was for me alone. “And look… domestic.”
Before I could ask what that meant, he tucked the weapon into the back of his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and unlocked the door. He opened it just enough to reveal a middle-aged man in a faded brown cardigan, clutching a clipboard. The man looked bored, impatient, and ordinary.
“Herr Müller,” Specter said, his voice suddenly warm. “Guten Morgen. What brings you here?”
The landlord grunted something that might have been a greeting, his eyes moving past Specter to land on me. I tried to look “domestic,” whatever that meant, straightening my rumpled shirt and praying my mouth didn’t advertise what we’d been doing.
“Water damage inspection,” the landlord said in heavily accented English, holding up his clipboard like a shield. “Unit above flooded. Need to check walls, ceilings.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
“Of course.” His entire demeanor softened, the lethal edge tucked away. “Please, come in. We were just having breakfast.”
I watched as Specter stepped aside, allowing the landlord to enter. The same hands that had killed yesterday now gestured apologetically as he rubbed the back of his neck, playing at sheepish.
“My girlfriend and I…” He sent me a glance so convincingly affectionate, I almost believed it. “We are just visiting Munich for a few days.”
The landlord barely spared us a second glance as he moved around the apartment, tapping walls and examining corners with practiced indifference. “Tourists,” he muttered, as if this explained everything about us.
I followed Specter’s lead, staying close to him, one hand resting lightly on his arm like we were indeed a couple interrupted during breakfast rather than fugitives hiding from assassins.
“Nothing here,” the landlord concluded after a cursory inspection that took less than two minutes. He made a notation on his clipboard. “If you see wet spots on ceiling, call office.”
“We will,” Specter said, already moving toward the door. “Danke schön.”
The landlord left with a final grunt, not bothering to look back as Specter closed and locked the door behind him. We stood in frozen silence, listening to the heavy footsteps recede down the hallway, followed by the stairwell’s complaint.
When the sound finally faded, I exhaled an unsteady breath. The absurdity hit me all at once—hiding from professional killers only to be interrupted by a building inspection—and a bubble of nervous laughter rose in my throat.
“That was…” I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to contain the edgy giggle threatening to escape.
“Not tactical, clearly.” The charming tenant vanished between one breath and the next. He moved to the window, carefullypeering through the curtains. “Just an actual landlord doing his job. Bad timing.”
The laughter died in my throat as I watched him switch personas so effortlessly. “You were different with him. Your tone, your stance …”
“Basic tradecraft,” he said, letting the curtain fall back into place. “Always have a cover story ready. Always blend with your environment.”
“It was…” I searched for the right word. “Impressive.”
He turned, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Only impressive?”
