Page 31 of Hunted to Be Mine

The hint of flirtation brought me back to what we’d been doing before the interruption. Heat rose in my cheeks as I remembered his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck. We’d blown past professional boundaries.

Before I could formulate a response, Specter winced, his hand lifting to his temple.

My clinical instincts kicked in immediately. “Headache?”

“It’s nothing.” He dropped his hand, but I’d already crossed the room to him.

“Sit,” I told him, guiding him to the nearest chair. “Let me see your eyes.”

He complied with surprising docility, allowing me to tilt his face toward the light. I examined his pupils, equal and reactive, with no sign of the dilation that had preceded his seizures.

“Just a headache,” he said as I pressed my fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse rate. Normal rhythm, perhaps slightly elevated. “I’m not going to collapse.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, shifting fully into doctor mode. “Your neural pathways are under significant stress. The breakthrough memories, the conditioning breakdown, and it’s all taking a physical toll.”

He caught my wrist as I moved to check his temperature, his grip steady but firm. “I know my limits, Doc.”

I met his gaze, refusing to back down. “Do you? Because ten minutes ago you were ‘testing a theory’ that could’ve triggered another seizure.”

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “That theory panned out just fine.”

“This time.” I pulled my hand free. “What exactly were you testing?”

He leaned back, regarding me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Whether I could kiss you without my brain trying to shut down.”

The blunt honesty caught me off guard. “That was… reckless.”

“I needed to know.” He didn’t look away.

“Know what? If you could kiss someone without convulsing? That’s hardly…”

“If I could feel something real.” His tone dropped. “Without my brain shorting out.”

His words silenced me. I sat in the chair opposite him, medical training warring with the sudden urge to reach for his hand.

“Your conditioning,” I said carefully, “was designed to isolate you. To prevent emotional connections that might compromise your effectiveness as an operative.”

He nodded once, eyes never leaving mine. “They didn’t erase the capacity for feeling. They just made sure it hurt when it happened.”

“Yes.”

One syllable that carried the weight of everything they’d stolen from him. I absorbed what it meant, that he’d risked a seizure, risked our safety, just to determine if he could still experience connection without punishment.

“I’m going to try something different,” I said, moving behind his chair. “A grounding technique that might help with theheadache and potentially access memories without triggering seizures.”

He stiffened as I positioned myself behind him. “What does it involve?”

“Touch,” I admitted. “But clinical touch, focused on pressure points.”

The distinction felt necessary, even as I recognized its hollowness. Touch was touch, and my body still hummed from our earlier contact. But I needed this boundary, this pretense of professional distance.

“I need you to close your eyes and focus on your breathing,” I said, placing my fingertips lightly on his temples. “Inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four.”

To my surprise, he complied without argument, eyes closing, shoulders dropping as he followed my direction. I began applying gentle pressure in slow, methodical circles, working from his temples across his forehead and back.

“Focus on the physical sensation.” I kept my voice even. “The pressure, the temperature of my fingers, the circular motion.”

His breathing deepened, the muscles beneath my fingertips relaxing incrementally. Encouraged, I continued the technique, moving to the base of his skull, finding the hard knots of tension there.