Page 70 of Hunted to Be Mine

Something pulled tight in my chest. I had memories of sex, sure—transactional, strategic, a purge. With Selina, it wasn’t that. It was something else. More.

A rough patch of track jolted us. Her eyes opened, dazed for a beat. We were close enough that I could see flecks of gold in her hazel.

“Sorry.” She straightened, carving out an inch between us. “Didn’t mean to use you as a pillow.”

“I don’t mind.” It came out rougher than planned.

She studied my face, glanced at my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You should sleep too.”

The berth was built for one. If we lay down, we’d be pressed together. Every breath shared. Heat rolled through me anyway.

“I’ll take the floor,” I said, even though there wasn’t much of one.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She shifted, making more room. “We’ve already shared a bed. This is just sleeping.”

Just sleeping. As if Munich could be filed and forgotten. As if the imprint of her wasn’t cut into me.

I eased down beside her. Our bodies aligned in the narrow space. My arm slid under her head, careful to keep her against my better side. Her hand rested light on my chest, skirting my bandages.

The train rocked, hypnotic. Outside, evening thickened, fields slipping from blue to black. In this tiny box, cut off from everything, time thinned out.

“This is crazy,” she said at my neck.

“Which part?” My fingers traced small patterns along her shoulder.

“All of it. Running from assassins. Conspiracies. Sleeping with a man whose real name I don’t even know.”

I went still. “I don’t know it either.” She pushed up on an elbow, looking at me in the dim. “Does it matter? The name?”

I weighed it. It mattered more than I wanted to admit. “It’s the difference between being someone and being something. A weapon doesn’t need a name.”

Her hand came to my face. Fingers skimmed my jaw, gentle enough to ache. “You’re not a weapon to me. You never were.”

Something inside me loosened. I caught her hand, pressed it to my cheek, felt her pulse beat against my skin.

“What am I to you, then?” The question slipped out.

In the thin dark, with the train carrying us toward whatever waited, Selina looked past Oblivion’s edits—past the killer, past the blank spaces.

“Something I’ve never had before.” Her voice blended with the hum. “Something I can’t name and don’t want to lose.”

I drew her in, careful of my ribs, wanting her warmth more than air.

My hand slid up, cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her cheekbone. Warm. Alive.

I leaned in, pulled by something I couldn’t label and had no interest in fighting.

Her palm landed on my chest. Gentle, but firm. “Wait.”

I froze and pulled back enough to see her face in the strip of light from the window. The stop-start of it hit harder thanit should. Her pulse ran high against me. Pupils blown. A flush worked up her throat. Her body said yes. Her mouth said…

“What’s wrong?” My voice scraped.

She looked away, hair spilling forward. “I haven’t showered since Prague. I feel disgusting.”

A short laugh slipped out before I could choke it down. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“It’s not funny.” Her mouth twitched anyway. “Some of us care about hygiene.”