Page 89 of Hunted to Be Mine

“I’m functioning.” I stood. Muscles complained. “Selina, it’s all there. Who I was. What I did. I can’t wait.”

Her features softened. Her thumb grazed my stubble. “Okay.”

I pulled on the dry clothes and followed her to the table with the files.

We spread the papers out. Operation reports. Medical records. Assessment forms. Fragments of a life cataloged by the people who broke it.

I skimmed columns and dates. “Anything useful?”

“Maybe. We need to confirm what’s actually yours. Probably not all of it,” she said, sorting pages.

I nodded, but the paper with the photograph snagged at me. A man with my face but not my eyes stared back. When I tried to read the handwriting beneath it, a sharp spike lit behind my temples.

I pushed it to Selina. “This. What’s it say?”

She picked up the photo, turned it over carefully. She read the back, lips parting. The room went quieter.

“Are you ready for this?”

I wasn’t. Who is? I nodded anyway, bracing.

“A name. Wolfe Lennox.” Her tone was careful, measured.

The name landed like a hammer. My skull lit up. The room tilted. My knees gave out. I hit the floor, a strangled sound tearing loose. I hadn’t expected it.

“Specter!” Selina’s voice came from far off.

A shock shot from skull to spine, every nerve firing. My vision fractured—shards of now and then.

A dark apartment. Money stacked on a table. The weight of a gun in my hand.

“Stay with me.” She knelt beside me, hands on my shoulders. “Focus on my voice.”

Blood on white tile. A woman screaming. My finger on the trigger.

“It’s attacking me,” I gasped, gripping my head. My body jerked as the programming fought the breach.

A warehouse. Not tonight’s. Men kneeling in a row. Gunshots. Mine.

Selina wrapped herself around me, anchoring me while I thrashed.

The flashes came faster, ragged and mean. Not Specter’s clean edges; something rougher.

Knuckles splitting on someone’s jaw. Bone cracking. Satisfaction.

Another version of me stared back. A man who liked the hurt he dealt, who killed for cash, who betrayed and slept fine. Wolfe Lennox hadn’t been a victim. He’d picked this.

“No,” I groaned, trying to pull away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not leaving.” Her hold tightened.

“My body’s gearing up. I’ll hurt you,” I warned, barely hearing my own voice. “If I black out…”

“You won’t.” She cupped my face. “Look at me. Here.”

I forced my eyes open. Found hers. The room spun, but her face held steady.

A dark-haired woman, crying. “Wolfe. Please.”