Page 15 of Hunted to Be Mine

Something in his tone shifted on those last words, a flicker of genuine bitterness beneath the casual front. I caught it, filed it away.

“This isn’t a game, Specter.” I kept my voice firm, professional. “I need you to take this seriously, or I walk out that door.”

His eyebrow lifted, unimpressed. “Why bother with all this talking? There must be some miracle drug that can fix what’s in my head. Something quicker than your couch sessions.”

I studied him, noting the tension in his jaw despite his relaxed posture. Beneath the dismissive words, I heard what he wasn’t saying: he wanted to be fixed. Now. The impatience wasn’t just arrogance, it was plain desperation.

“There’s nothing so clear-cut,” I countered, my voice taking on an edge of authority. “And pharmaceutical interventions could cause adverse effects, even irreversible ones.”

I stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his presence. “Are you willing to risk losing what little of yourself you’ve managed to recover? For the sake of convenience?”

The room went still. His expression flickered, mask slipping for just a moment to reveal something raw underneath. Heat rolled off him.

“That’s assuming there’s anything worth recovering,” he added finally, voice lower.

“I think we both know there is,” I replied. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have surrendered to SENTINEL in the first place.”

He narrowed his gaze, assessing me with renewed interest. “You think you have me figured out.”

“Not even close,” I admitted. “But I recognize desperation and determination when I see it.”

I moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down to level our power dynamic. His focus followed me, measuring.

“Tell me about the seizure,” I asked.

“Nothing to tell. One minute I was”—his mouth curved slightly—"kissing you. The next, waking up here with people shining lights in my face.”

“You don’t remember anything that happened during the episode?”

He shrugged, the movement too deliberately casual. “Blackness. Then hospital ceiling tiles.”

I made a note in his file, conscious of his attention on my hands. “And how many episodes like this have you experienced before?”

“No clue. Apart from yesterday and today.”

“We need to identify the cause and press there. We might get answers, even a breakthrough. It could be significant.”

He held my stare, challenge written there. “Why? So SENTINEL can build a better cage? Or so you can publish a paper on broken assassins?”

I set my clipboard down, leaning forward slightly. “So I can help you. Which is what you claimed to want.”

“What I want,” he said, his tone dropping, edged with threat, “and what I need aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

“And what do you need?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a calculated gesture designed to draw my attention to his mouth. I refused to give him the satisfaction, keeping my focus locked on his.

“Control,” he said finally. “Everything they took: memories, identity, autonomy. It all comes down to control. And then bringing them down.”

For the first time, I sensed genuine honesty in his words, though the admission was clearly tactical. Give me something real to keep me engaged.

“So, tell me about the first time you felt their programming slipping,” I pressed. “When did it happen? What set it off?”

He shifted, muscles tensing beneath the thin hospital gown.

“During what they called ‘maintenance conditioning.’ Standard procedure, chemical cocktail, neural triggers, the usual mindfuck.” His casual tone belied the horror of what he described. “Then something… broke.”

“Broke how?”