Page 40 of Hunted to Be Mine

“But you didn’t.”

“That wasn’t me in there.” His attention went to my bruises, then away. “That was… something else. Something they put in me.”

“I know.”

He searched for the fear I was controlling. “You should be running.”

“Probably.” I held out an open palm. “But I’m not.”

He stared at the offering like it might burn. He shook, not from temperature, but from shock and self-hate. Red continued dripping, bright on powder.

“Your hand needs treatment.” Steady, clinical tone. “Let me see.”

For a moment, I thought he’d refuse. Then he extended the injured limb. I took his wrist carefully, turning to examine the torn skin. Significant damage, deep cuts, possible fractures. The skin felt too warm against the winter air.

“We need to clean this.” I kept my focus on the wound, not him. “And check for fractures.”

My exam brought me closer, into his space. Our breaths mixed in clouds. I was aware of his height, his presence. Neither of us mentioned what had happened, but it hung there, knowing part of him was programmed to kill.

Yet here I stood, holding damaged flesh, my thumb stroking the wrist where pulse raced.

“Why are you still here?” The question barely audible over the wind.

“Because you need help.”

“I need to be put down.” Flat, emotionless. “I’m a weapon with a bad trigger. Next time…”

“Don’t worry about next time.” I met his stare.

They looked haunted, searching for answers I didn’t have. “You should. I don’t know what they put in my head, what might trigger it again.”

“You fought it. You could’ve killed me, but you didn’t. Something in you was stronger than conditioning.”

He looked away. “Not strong enough. Not fast enough.”

I released him and reached for his face, turning it back. Dangerous with someone unstable, but instinct guided more than training. The skin was chilled under my palm.

“Listen. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“My fists. My body.” He cracked. “I felt it, but couldn’t stop. I was trapped, watching myself hurt you.”

The adrenaline was fading, leaving us raw. My windpipe ached. His hand bled. Two damaged people on a snowy balcony.

He watched me, the question clear. Why was I here after what he had almost done? What person stood this close to someone who nearly killed them?

I didn’t have a logical answer. Nothing about this followed protocol or boundaries. My mind offered rational arguments for distance, caution, self-preservation.

My heart offered something else.

I made a decision that broke all ethics and sense. Moving slowly, I closed the distance, palms on his chest. A heartbeat raced under fabric.

“Selina.” Warning tight in the name. “Don’t.”

I ignored him. In one movement, I straddled his lap as he sat against the railing, knees pressing frozen concrete. He turned rigid, shocked.

“What are you doing?” Strained, arms held away like afraid to touch.

“Making a point.” I settled against him, faces level. “I’m not afraid of you.”