Page 38 of Hunted to Be Mine
He narrowed his focus. “Unknown entity. Potential handler status: unconfirmed.” His advance was smooth, predatory. “State authorization code.”
“I don’t have an authorization code. I’m Dr. Selina Crawford. I’ve been helping you recover memories.”
“Unauthorized personnel.” Still emotionless, but his stance shifted, weight balanced, ready. Ready to attack. “Security protocol initiated.”
“No.” I raised both palms slowly. “Specter, listen. This isn’t you. This is conditioning.”
He took another step, gaze locked on mine. Nothing there, no recognition, no conflict, no humanity. Just Oblivion’s perfect weapon.
“Please,” I whispered. “Remember the pastry. Remember the kiss. Remember who you are.”
His arm shot forward, fast, closing around my throat. Not crushing yet. Just securing, like a predator playing before the kill.
“Specter.” The name wheezed out. “This isn’t you.”
Medical training kicked in. His thumb sat right against my carotid. One squeeze and I’d be out in seconds. That empty stare remained, studying my reactions like machine readings.
“Your conditioning activated.” I kept steady despite his fingers. “You had a memory about children, then a seizure.”
Nothing registered.
“Security breach contained.” Mechanical precision. “Awaiting extraction protocol.”
“The pastry triggered it. Purple filling. You took it from my fingers. You kissed me yesterday.”
His grip tightened a bit. My vision darkened at the edges.
“Unauthorized personnel attempting psychological manipulation.” No warmth entered the mechanical tone. “Countermeasures authorized.”
My lungs burned. I had seconds. Fighting wasn’t an option; he had seventy pounds on me, all combat muscle. His programming had made him a killing machine, and I was just a target.
“Listen.” The words forced past constriction. “You told me about the Farm, the Chair. You’re fighting this. You want your memories!”
Something tiny flickered in those depths, maybe confusion. A crack in the programming. Gone so fast I might’ve imagined it.
The pressure increased. Black spots danced.
Right then, with death at my throat, training failed me. This wasn’t a patient having an episode. This was a weapon, and I was running out of air.
“Code verification failed.” His head tilted. “Eliminating security risk.”
My mind recognized what was happening: I was watching the man I cared for disappear behind programming. The vulnerability, humor, humanity, all gone. Replaced by this shell. Not Specter. Just protocols.
Desperate, I made a choice that broke every professional boundary.
I raised my palm slowly, each movement deliberate. He tracked it, but didn’t react beyond adjusting his stance. My fingers shook as I brought them toward his face.
The grip remained firm, but he didn’t stop me. Maybe the gesture was too far outside threat parameters.
Skin touched cheek. Warm flesh, cold purpose.
“I know you’re in there.” My vision blurred with tears. “This isn’t who you are.”
Three heartbeats. Nothing changed. Fingers still locked on my windpipe.
Then, something. A tiny disturbance in that empty gaze. Static in a signal.
The grip loosened just enough. I dragged in air.
