Page 22 of Hunted to Be Mine

“So how many of these do you have scattered around Europe?”

“Enough.” He finished his inspection and turned toward me. “More importantly, not even Dresner knows about them. I set them up under different names, through old channels.”

Blood had soaked through his makeshift bandage, and the stiffness in the way he moved told me he was running on adrenaline and training rather than physical well-being.

“Sit,” I said, gesturing to the bed. “Let me look at those wounds before infection sets in or you pass out from blood loss.”

He hesitated, that fractional pause that spoke volumes about ingrained vigilance. Then he complied, lowering himself to the edge of the bed.

“Take off your shirt.” My tone stayed even, professional.

Specter peeled his shirt away from his skin with a grimace. The fabric stuck in places where blood had dried.

My clinical detachment slipped. His torso was all lean muscle, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, each line earned. No bulk for show, only work-hardened strength. I swallowed as my eyes traced the planes of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdomen.

Then I registered the damage. Fresh wounds marred his skin, an angry gash across his right shoulder, purple bruising spreading beneath the skin of his ribs. Blood had dried in rust-colored trails down his side.

But it was the older marks that stopped me. A constellation of seams told stories of survival—puckered bullet wounds, jagged knife cuts, burns with deliberate patterns. Near his collarbone, a pale line that could only have come from electrical burns. Along his back, thin white lines suggested systematic torture. Beside his heart, a healed puncture wound that should have been fatal.

I’d read his file, cataloged his injuries in clinical terms. Seeing the physical record of his suffering etched across his skin made something twist in my chest.

“Doctor?” His voice cut through my silence.

I cleared my throat. “The shoulder needs stitches.”

“Do what you need to,” he said, watching me with steady eyes.

I soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic and began cleaning the bullet graze. The wound was ugly but clean, the bullet had torn through flesh without hitting bone or major vessels. He didn’t flinch as I worked, though it had to sting.

“You’ve done this before,” he observed.

“I’m a psychiatrist. I’ve got medical training even if I chose another specialty.” I threaded the curved needle I’d sterilized with alcohol. “I remember having better gear back then.”

“I’ve been stitched with fishing line and vodka. This is luxury.”

The apartment’s silence pressed in around us, broken only by the occasional sound from the street below and the soft hiss ofhis breath when I began the first suture. His skin was warm under my fingers, the muscle tight.

“You held your own. Kept a cool head,” he murmured, “when Blackout hit us.”

I tied off the first stitch before answering. “Three months of intensive self-defense after a patient attack. Nothing compared to your level, but enough to stay alive in some situations.”

His attention never left my face as I worked, studying me with a steady look that made the small room feel even smaller. I kept my gaze fixed on the wound, refusing to be distracted by his regard or the heat radiating from his skin.

“The patient who gave you that scar on your wrist,” he kept his voice low.

My hands paused for just a moment before continuing. “One of several.”

“You survived. Not many would have.”

“Not many have your talent for reading old wounds.” I started another stitch, the needle slipping through his flesh with minimal resistance. “Or is that another Oblivion party trick?”

“Recognition,” he corrected. “One broken thing identifying another.”

As I worked on the third stitch, my fingers brushed an old scar near his collarbone, a thin white line. His hand came up instantly, catching my wrist, firm, not harsh. For a moment, we froze in that tableau, his fingers circling my wrist, my hand suspended against his skin.

His thumb rested against my pulse point, and I knew he could feel the sudden jump of my heartbeat. His expression eased for a beat, or maybe I imagined it. Then he released me, his hand dropping back to the bed.

“Not that one,” he said simply.