Page 8 of Hunted to Be Mine

“It’s recognition.” His hand moved, not touching, but almost, fingers hovering near my cheek before dropping. “I see what he sees in you. The damage hidden under all that polishedcomposure. The darkness you’ve learned to dress in daylight. The jagged broken edges that fit against his.”

My breath held for a beat. No one had ever seen that clearly, that quickly.

“Stay away from those edges, Dr. Crawford.” His statement lowered enough to scrape. “Or you’ll find yourself cut on both sides.”

He withdrew, the instant breaking cleanly. Professional distance restored, masks back in place. But the current remained in the air between us, two predators who’d shown their teeth and decided not to bite. Yet.

“Your first session with Specter is scheduled for tomorrow, 0800 hours.” Administrative precision returned. “Dr. Prieto will brief you on security protocols.”

He went to the exit, paused one final time. “And Selina?”

The use of my first name was deliberate, intimate.

“Don’t let him inside your head. Once he’s there, he never leaves.”

The lock engaged behind him with that same final snap, leaving me alone with his cautions and the metallic taste in my mouth. On the wall screen, the image of Specter remained frozen, mid-strike, lethal and terrible in his violence.

Dawson was something else entirely. Another predator who’d seen through my work armor to the fractured thing beneath. His caution ran on a loop: Men like us possess. We consume. We destroy.

Us. He’d said us.

I stood at the intersection of two different kinds of threat: one damaged and desperate for redemption, the other polished and coiled with restraint. Both of them saw me too clearly. Both of them wanted something I wasn’t sure I could give without losing myself in the process.

Tomorrow, I would walk back into that space with Specter. I would maintain clinical boundaries. I would not let him under my skin again.

Even as I thought it, the lie tasted sharp.

The game hadn’t just begun. I was already three moves behind, and both players on the board were hunters who’d scented prey.

The question was no longer whether I’d survive intact.

The question was which one would devour me first.

Or if, somehow, I could turn the board and become the hunter myself.

My reflection caught in the black screen of my phone. Tailored blazer, careful makeup, all of it neatly in place. Except my stare. Wild and desperate and recognizing something that felt like coming home to a house on fire.

Dawson’s words: The darkness you’ve learned to dress in daylight.

He was right. That was the real threat. Not that they saw my damage, but that they recognized it as kin to their own. Three broken things, sharp enough to cut, dragging toward the same wreck.

Tomorrow would tell which of us would bleed first.

I was betting it would be me.

And the worst part? Some twisted part of me was looking forward to it.

Because at least bleeding meant feeling something real, something that couldn’t be controlled or categorized or diagnosed away. Something that existed in the space between hunter and prey, where survival was law and truth was the metallic tang in your mouth.

I gathered my files, turned off the screen, and prepared to walk back into daylight wearing my work mask like armor.

But underneath, in the places where Dawson had seen and Specter’s words had marked, something had already begun to unravel.

Whether I’d have enough thread left to weave myself back together when this was over.

Or if I even wanted to.

Chapter 3