Page 42 of Hunted to Be Mine

“The past stays behind us.”

“It was five minutes ago.”

“Five minutes is enough to make a choice.” I let go and went to my bag. “Sit. I need to look at the damage.”

He remained standing, water pooling as ice melted. “How are you this calm? I nearly killed you.”

I paused, kit in grip, facing him. “Because I understand what happened. Your conditioning took over after the memory. That wasn’t you.”

“It was my grip on your windpipe.” First real emotion cracked through.

“Sit.” I gestured. “Please.”

After hesitation, he sat on the sofa. I knelt and opened the kit, grateful for the familiar routine. It gave me something concrete, a solvable problem.

I handled the injury gently, examining it in the dim light. Significant but not as bad as feared, split skin, deep bruising, no obvious fractures. The repetition had distributed force evenly.

“This’ll sting.” Warning given, I wet gauze with antiseptic.

He didn’t flinch, though it must’ve hurt. That stare remained on my face, searching for fear.

“What happened”—I kept my tone clinical as I cleaned between fingers—"was textbook conditioning response. The memory overloaded neural pathways, triggered seizure, activated embedded protocols.”

“You’re saying it like a medical condition, not me trying to kill you.”

“Because that’s what it was. Your conditioning created dissociation where conscious mind was suppressed while programmed responses took over.”

“Doesn’t make it better.”

“Means it wasn’t your choice.” I pressed clean gauze to knuckles. “What matters is you fought through. You broke the programming.”

“Not before hurting you.” The uninjured palm rose, hovering near my bruises, tracing where pressure had been.

I didn’t pull away. “But before killing me. There’s a difference.”

“Second’s difference.” His voice dropped. “Next time…”

“Next time, we’ll be prepared.” I applied ointment before reaching for bandage. “Now we know memory breakthroughs can trigger full response. We can establish grounding, anchors, safe words. Me touching your cheek worked.”

“Or you could walk away. Find someone else to save.” His voice was so quiet that I almost missed it.

I wrapped bandage around the wounds, white stark on skin. “I don’t want someone else.”

He tracked as I secured with tape. My touch had crossed from professional to intimate, lingering, fingers brushing palm, wrist. The clinical gave us both a way to process without drowning in raw emotion.

When done, I remained kneeling, the bandaged fist in mine. The moment stretched, where he could retreat to shame or accept what I offered.

“I don’t understand you.” Finally spoken. “After what happened, what you saw, how can you still...?”

“Still what?”

“Still look at me like that.” His voice was rough. “Like I’m worth saving.”

“Because I’ve seen both sides now.” I held steady contact. “The operative and the man fighting free. And I choose to believe in the man.”

The bandaged palm turned, fingers lacing with mine. The gesture carried unvoiced apology and gratitude he couldn’t express. Something had shifted. I’d seen his conditioning’s darkest and stayed, while he’d faced his worst truth yet accepted my touch after.

“I won’t let it happen again.” A vow.