Page 16 of Hunted to Be Mine

“Like glass shattering inside my skull.” His hand clenched into a fist on the sheet. “They were using the standard memory suppression protocol, but instead of wiping clean, it was like… someone flipped a switch. Memories started flooding back, random fragments, nothing coherent. My handler thought I was faking, so they didn’t think anything had changed.”

I leaned forward, truly intrigued now. “What did they do?”

“They adjusted the protocol. Called it ‘neural pathway resistance.’ Treated me like a lab rat that had developed immunity to poison.” His smile was sharp enough to cut. “That’s when I became interesting to them. A case study in conditioning failure.”

“And the second one?”

He met my stare, something unreadable flickering deep. “Soon after. During an assignment.”

“What set it off?”

His jaw tightened. “A name. Someone called me something, not Specter, not my operational designation.”

The revelation sent a thrill of professional excitement through me. “They used your real name?”

“Not sure it was my real name,” he admitted. “But it… resonated. Like a tuning fork hitting the right frequency. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, my head splitting open from the inside.”

“And you completed the assignment anyway,” I said.

His silence was answer enough.

“That level of programming, continuing a mission through neurological collapse, is extraordinary,” I added, unable to keep the professional interest from my voice.

“Glad I could impress you,” he said dryly.

“It’s not about being impressed. It’s about understanding the depth of what was done to you.” I leaned back, studying him. “Your brain is literally at war with itself. Part of you is fighting to remember, while the programming works to maintain control.”

He went still, the kind of stillness that only came with specialized training. “And which side are you on, Doctor?”

“Whichever part is actually you.”

His teasing expression vanished, replaced by something raw and genuine. “I’ve lost too much to screw it up now,” he admitted, voice stripped of its usual sardonic tone.

The sudden honesty created a different kind of charge between us, more dangerous than antagonism. I realized I’d finally broken through his first line of defense, but what lay beneath might be harder to face.

Silence filled the room as he stared at the wall, pondering so long that I feared he was shutting down completely. His jaw worked, fingers tightening against the bedsheet, the closest thing to visible struggle I’d seen from him.

I waited, resisting the urge to fill the silence. This moment felt crucial, a tipping point in his trust.

Finally, he met my gaze with startling clarity. “I’ll do it your way. No more faking.”

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. It shouldn’t have worked, this sudden capitulation after so much resistance, yet something in his expression convinced me this wasn’t another manipulation. Or at least, not entirely.

“Thank you,” I said, simply, allowing myself a moment of professional satisfaction.

His mouth curved into that familiar half-smile, but it didn’t reach. “Besides, Doctor, I’m finding our sessions more… stimulating than expected.”

There it was, the challenge back, but now layered with something genuine underneath. The combination was more potent than either alone.

“Then let’s be clear about the parameters going forward,” I continued, refusing to rise to his bait. “No more staged episodes. No more physical contact. If we’re going to make progress, we need boundaries.”

“Boundaries.” He tested the word like an unfamiliar weapon. “Like the one you crossed when you kissed me back?”

Heat crawled up my neck. “That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” His words were smooth, edged with threat.

I stood, gathering my files. “Our next session is tomorrow at ten. We’ll be working with cognitive memory retrieval techniques. I suggest you rest and prepare yourself.”