Page 33 of Hunted to Be Mine
My pulse jumped. “What name?”
He shook his head slightly, the muscles in his neck cording with strain. “I can’t remember. It’s right there, but it won’t…” His face tensed with frustration and discomfort. “It’s locked away.”
“Don’t force it,” I cautioned, feeling his muscles tense beneath my fingers. “These memories are fragmented for a reason. Pushing too hard could trigger another seizure.”
He exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders in stages. “It feels important.”
“It is,” I said. “But we need to be methodical. The facility, the dark-haired woman—these are significant breakthrough memories. Let’s give your mind time to process them before we push further.”
I removed my hands from his temples, stepping around to face him. His eyes remained closed for another moment, then opened to meet mine. The vulnerability I’d glimpsed earlier had hardened into determination.
“They think they own me,” he said quietly. “That they built me from nothing. But there was something before. Someone.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “And we’re going to find out who.”
He reached up, catching my wrist in a gentle grip. The touch wasn’t clinical now, wasn’t therapeutic. It was human, the very connection his conditioning had been designed to destroy.
“Thank you,” he said, the words awkward in his mouth, as if he’d forgotten how to use them.
I nodded, unable to find an appropriate response. How did you acknowledge gratitude from a man they’d tried to turn into a weapon? Who’d been shocked, burned, and broken for the crime of feeling?
The moment stretched between us, neither professional nor romantic, but something harder to define. Partnership, perhaps. Or the beginnings of trust.
His thumb brushed the artery at my wrist, and I went still. A reminder of how our boundaries had blurred, how complicated this had become.
“You should rest,” I said, withdrawing my hand and trying to reclaim professional distance. “That headache could worsen if you don’t give your neural pathways time to recover.”
He watched me retreat, something assessing in his gaze. “Is that your medical opinion, Doctor?”
“Yes.” I busied myself gathering the water glasses from the table, needing physical distance. “Cognitive fatigue after memory breakthrough is common. Sleep helps the brain process and integrate.”
He rose slowly, closing the distance between us with quiet intent. “You’re afraid.”
“Of course, I’m afraid,” I said, meeting his gaze. “We’re being hunted by assassins. And this”—I gestured between us—“this complicates everything.”
“This is the only thing that makes sense,” he said. His tone roughened, near enough to stir what I didn’t want named. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the touch light. “You’re afraid of wanting someone you shouldn’t.”
I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve reestablished boundaries. Instead, I leaned a fraction closer.
“If we do this,” I whispered, “your conditioning might kill you.”
“Some things are worth the risk,” he murmured, his mouth hovering a breath from mine, waiting.
In that moment, I knew that whatever choice I made would change us both.
“Your brain needs rest,” I said, my voice gentle but firm. “Not more complications.”
For a moment, we stood there, neither yielding. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth curved into that dangerous half-smile.
“Round one to you, Doc,” he murmured, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender.
I exhaled, relief and disappointment twined together. “There are no rounds here. Just recovery.”
He laughed softly, the sound a little rusty. “Keep telling yourself that.”
To my surprise, he moved to the couch, stretching his long frame across it with casual ease. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out, eyes closed, features relaxed in a way I’d never seen before.
Chapter 9
