Page 29 of Hunted to Be Mine

I reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”

He hesitated, then slowly extended his right hand. I took it between both of mine, turning it palm up.

“This is a simple grounding exercise.” I pressed my thumb lightly into the center of his palm. “Focus on this point of contact. The pressure, the temperature of my skin against yours.”

His pulse jumped under my fingers, but he kept his grip still.

“Physical sensation anchors you to the present. When we start exploring memories, this gives your mind something concrete to return to.”

“And you think this will prevent the episodes?” His mouth tightened, skepticism clear.

“I think it will give your mind a lifeline. Something to hold onto when the memories become overwhelming.”

His gaze never left my face as I demonstrated, tracing small circles on his palm. The simple touch felt unexpectedly intimate in the quiet apartment.

“There are other techniques.” I kept my voice even. “Rhythmic breathing, sensory focus…”

“Do they all involve you touching me?” He cut me off with a look.

Heat crawled up my neck. “No. But physical tethering is often the most effective.”

Specter studied me with a steady look, then abruptly turned his hand to capture mine and pulled me to my feet. “Before we begin, I need to test something.”

He stood before I could step back, drawing me in. The sudden movement brought us chest to chest, the small table no longer a barrier between us. His free hand moved to my face, fingers gliding from temple to jaw in an unhurried line.

“What are you doing?” My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, thin and uncertain.

“Testing a theory.” His thumb brushed across my lower lip. “About anchoring.”

I should have stepped back. Should have reminded him of professional boundaries, of the risks involved, of everything that made this a terrible idea. Instead, I stood still as his fingers curled around the nape of my neck.

“Specter…”

“That’s not who I am,” he said, his voice soft. “Not all of me.”

Then his mouth was on mine, and my thoughts scattered.

The kiss started slow, a question, not a demand. His lips brushed mine with care, as though I might shatter under too much pressure. Nothing like our previous encounter. Nothing like the calculated provocations he’d used before.

This was real. Unplanned. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with Oblivion.

Against every professional instinct, I responded. My hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath my palms. The kiss deepened, transforming from question to statement. His arm circled my waist, pulling me closer until there was nothing between us but clothing and the last threads of my professional resolve.

The warning bells in my mind grew fainter with each passing second. This man, this dangerous, broken, fascinating man, was dismantling my defenses with nothing more than his mouth on mine. And I was letting him.

When we finally broke apart, I remained close enough to feel his breath against my lips. Reality crashed back, along with thememory of what had happened the last time we’d kissed: his seizure, the medical team rushing in, the violent convulsions.

“How do you feel?” I asked, searching his face for any sign of distress. “Any dizziness? Disorientation?”

I waited on alert, monitoring him for the slightest sign of distress. My fingers moved to his wrist, counting his pulse, steady, strong, perhaps a bit fast. His pupils weren’t dilated in that alarming way they’d been before the seizure. No tremors in his hands, no tension in his jaw beyond what our proximity created.

“You should sit. Let me check…”

“I don’t need checking.” His hand came up to my face, thumb skimming the curve of my cheekbone. “I have my answer…”

I paused, expecting him to wait for any symptoms to surface, mentally preparing my clinical response. Instead, he kissed me again.

Chapter 8