Page 13 of Hunted to Be Mine

“Stay with me.” Though I knew he couldn’t hear me through the attack. I checked my watch, timing the episode. “Help is coming.”

The entrance burst open behind me as medical personnel rushed in, Mattie leading the response team with Chief Seok following. I stepped back, giving them room to work, my palms trembling with residual adrenaline.

“Onset approximately thirty seconds ago.” I watched as they stabilized him.

A nurse nodded, already checking his vitals. Another prepared an injection, anti-seizure medication, most likely.

As they worked, I noticed activity by the entrance. Commander Dawson observed, his expression unreadable. Our eyes met, and something passed between us, acknowledgment, perhaps, that this situation had exceeded both our expectations.

The attack subsided under the medication, Specter’s frame going limp. In unconsciousness, all menace disappeared, leaving only unexpected vulnerability. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and without thinking, I reached out to brush a strand of hair from his face.

The medical team transferred Specter to a gurney. As they wheeled him past, his eyes opened briefly, finding me despite the drugs coursing through his system.

“Not…” he whispered, barely audible. “Not faking this time.”

Then his eyes closed again, and they transported him away, leaving me alone with the lingering taste of his kiss and the certainty that whatever match we were playing had just changed all its rules.

Chapter 4

Selina

The clipboard slapped me on the thigh, jerking me from my thoughts. Mattie stood across from me, hands holding Specter’s medical chart, dark circles under her eyes.

“You look like you need caffeine more than I do,” I said, handing her the second coffee I’d brought.

Mattie took it with a grateful nod. “This is the normal me since joining SENTINEL. Won’t improve from what I can see, so I stopped looking in the mirror.” She sipped the coffee, grimacing slightly. “Though your taste in coffee might kill me before the job does.”

“Triple espresso is medicinal, not recreational.” I leaned against the wall outside Specter’s room, trying not to stare through the observation window. I’d been waiting for twenty minutes after Mattie’s text summoned me to the medical wing. “What’s his status?”

Mattie flipped open the chart. “That’s why I called you down. I need your professional perspective because, medically speaking,this makes no sense.” She tapped the brain scan images clipped to the chart. “His neurological readings are perfectly normal. No evidence of trauma, no seizure activity, no lingering physical effects. Nothing.”

I straightened. “That’s impossible. I saw the seizure. It was textbook: muscle rigidity, altered consciousness.”

“I’m not saying it didn’t happen. I’m saying there’s no physical evidence it happened.” Mattie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, frustration evident in the gesture. “He experienced the same blackout and temporary amnesia we’d expect, but recovered within hours as if nothing had happened. And then he was back to being”—her professional tone slipped—"well, annoying.”

I couldn’t help the curve of my mouth that crept onto my face. “I think his annoying personality has nothing to do with his brain issues.”

“So you’ve noticed too.” Mattie laughed, the sound breaking through the sterile hum of the medical wing. “Honestly, I’ve never had a patient wake up from a seizure and immediately critique how bright our lights were.”

“That sounds like him.” I took another sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat ground me.

Mattie’s expression turned serious again. “Selina, I’ve treated trauma patients, gunshot wounds, combat injuries. I understand physical damage. But this”—she gestured to the charts—"isn’t physical. It’s like his brain is rewiring itself in real time, healing on the spot.”

I nodded, processing. “What about potential physical triggers? Hormonal, for example? Was there anything in his body that might have set off the seizure?”

“Nothing in our examination or treatment protocols should have triggered that response.” Mattie studied my face. “Didsomething happen during your session that could have been a trigger?”

The memory of his lips against mine flashed unbidden, how they’d softened the second before he collapsed, the transition from calculated to something more vulnerable. Heat crept up my neck, and I forced it back down.

“It’s rarely as simple as a single action or word,” I said, deflecting. “His conditioning has multiple fail-safes built-in. More like programmed rewiring, so to speak.”

Mattie nodded, accepting my professional assessment. “Brain trauma, I understand. Psychological conditioning is your territory.”

“Did he say anything about what happened before the seizure?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral.

“He claims not to remember. Says everything goes black after you two started talking about his file.” Mattie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that consistent with your recollection?”

I maintained eye contact, years of professional control keeping my expression neutral. “We were discussing his conditioning protocols when he began exhibiting symptoms.”