Page 104 of Hunted to Be Mine

He stopped beside me, close enough that I could track the steady lift of his chest beneath black tactical gear. No insignias. No name. Just a uniform filled with a body.

“You’re stalling.” Flat. A report, not judgment.

I looked up. “Yes. I am.”

For a beat, something shifted in his green stare. Puzzlement, almost.

“Why?”

“Because I have no intention of helping Dresner ‘perfect’ anything.”

His posture tightened. “Resistance is pointless.”

“And yet, here I am, resisting.” I pushed the file away. “Five days of it.”

Since the drugged blur at the hotel, I’d woken in one gilded cell after another—bigger, shinier, higher ceilings, different trim. Who knew where. The only constant shadowing me was Blackout.

I made use of the hours. Tested reinforced panes, mapped routes from room to lab, marked security patterns. Every morning he walked me here to read about “malfunctioning assets.”

On the first day, Dresner had brought me in himself, cool delight gleaming as he laid out folders like gifts over shattered lives. He told me my expertise in trauma-induced behavioral change was exactly what he needed, that these subjects represented failures he would correct.

Now, looking at Blackout, I wondered what his complete file would show. What they’d carved out of Xavier Hale to make him this empty.

“You’re not analyzing.”

“No. I’m thinking about you.”

His shoulders drew taut. “I am not relevant to your assignment.”

“Aren’t you? A ‘perfect’ operative babysitting a psychologist who specializes in breaking conditioning.” I tipped my head. “Feels relevant.”

“Your attempts to manipulate me are noted. And ineffective.” He edged back an inch, like distance could fix it.

“Not manipulation. Curiosity.” I stood, rolling the kink from my neck. “Your conditioning isn’t like Specter’s. It’s more complete.”

He stayed silent.

“When I mentioned your sister the other day, your pupils widened. Just for a second. The body remembers even when the mind’s been scrubbed.”

His voice flattened. “You should return to your work.”

I walked to the window; he followed. The glass opened onto clipped lawns and distant mountains. Not Zagreb. Not close.

“Where are we, Blackout? Switzerland? Austria?” I set my palm to the cold pane. “Feels Swiss. The architecture screams money.”

He didn’t answer, but he shifted to place himself between me and the exit. I’d drifted too close to a line.

“What does Dresner really want from me?” I asked. “He already has data. Why my analysis?”

“The Director’s objectives are not my concern.”

“They should be.” I kept my tone low. “Whatever he’s planning targets people like you. New protocols. Cleaner ways to erase what’s left.”

For a second, his eyes sharpened. Not emotion—reception, like a radio catching a station, then static.

“Dr. Crawford.” Dresner’s voice slid into the room as he entered—charcoal suit, neat tie, everything tailored and smug. “I see you’re making yourself comfortable rather than productive.”

“I’ve been reviewing your files.”