Chapter 10 #2
Specter remained pressed to the railing, snow in dark hair. He tracked me with naked horror, emptiness replaced by something worse. Recognition. Recognition of what he’d done. Almost done.
“Don’t.” The word came hoarse. “Stay back.”
I ignored him, closing distance. The damaged fist hung at his side, dripping red on white. The damage was clear, split knuckles, maybe fractures.
“Let me see your hand.” My voice emerged raspier than expected.
He flinched when I reached, pressing harder against the railing. “I could’ve killed you.”
“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.”
“You should be.” But his good palm found my waist, a touch asking forgiveness he couldn’t voice.
Flakes continued falling, catching in dark hair, melting on shoulders. He watched my face, searching for fear but found resolve.
“I saw what they did. I saw the operative. But that’s not you.”
“You don’t know who I am.” The grip tightened. “Even I don’t know myself.”
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
I leaned in, decision made before thought caught up. My lips brushed his, soft, questioning. He didn’t move, not responding but not pulling away. I pressed forward, more insistent. Fingers cradled his jaw, feeling the tension.
Three heartbeats frozen. Then something broke. That mouth softened, responding hesitantly. The uninjured palm slid to my back, pulling me close with careful gentleness.
The kiss deepened, white creating a curtain around us. First chill, then warm against mine. I tasted desperation and relief, fear and hope. Everything we couldn’t say wrapped in this contact.
When we broke apart, our breaths puffed between us. He kept his eyes closed, afraid to see mine.
“I’m still here.” The whisper found his ear. “Still choosing this.”
They opened, searching. “Why?”
I didn’t have a simple answer. Nothing simple here. I’d just seen his conditioning’s worst, and instead of running, I was sitting in his lap, precipitation melting in my hair, lips warm from his.
“Because I’ve seen enough to know what’s real. And the real parts are worth fighting for.”
He leaned his forehead on mine, breaths mingling. The damaged fist kept away, but the other traced my spine, probably reassuring himself that I was there.
“I don’t deserve this.” A murmur. “Any of it.”
“Not about deserving.” I pulled back to meet that gaze. “About choosing. And I choose to stay.”
Water melted in my hair, chills running down my neck. The moment was fading to practical concerns, his bleeding, our wet clothes, the temperature. I slid from his lap, knees stiff.
“We should go in.” I held his good palm. “Getting colder.”
He glanced at the door, then back. “I don’t think that’s good.”
I understood. The apartment that had been a sanctuary was tainted by what had happened. He repeatedly looked at my neck, where bruises would form.
“I can’t go back in there with you.” Quiet admission. “Not after…”
I squeezed tighter. “Can’t stay out here either.”
Flakes landed on dark lashes. “I’m not safe.”
“Not your decision.” I tugged him forward. “Come inside. Please.”
He remained frozen, conflict in every line. The bleeding had stopped, but exposure was making it worse. I needed to treat it soon.
“You’re bleeding.” I lifted the injured limb. “And we’re freezing. One problem at a time?”
After silence, he nodded once. I went to the door first, still connected, leading, not forcing. Each step behind me felt weighted. He paused at the threshold, as if he was facing execution, not shelter.
“I could wait somewhere else. Find another…”
“No.” I pulled him gently inside. Warmth hit immediately, showing how frozen we’d gotten. Water melted off us onto the floor, puddles at our feet. I closed the door, shutting out the storm.
We stood dripping, silent. He looked to where he’d held me, then away quickly, shame dark on his features. When he looked back, I stepped between him and that spot, blocking it with my body.
“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.
“We won’t let it happen.” Correction made.
The grip tightened, a lifeline after trauma.
I continued kneeling, our connection held, aware how exhaustion pulled at us. The crash had left me hollow, instincts suggesting dry clothes and sleep. We needed rest to process, recover strength.
But Specter didn’t let go. His eyes zeroed in on my neck, narrowing at what must be darkening marks. Self-hate carved lines around his mouth, jaw tight with barely contained anguish.
The bandaged fist lifted toward the bruise, hovering above skin. I felt the heat emanating from his fingertips, the tremor through him.
Before he could touch evidence, I caught the movement. His eyes widened as I brought bandaged knuckles to my lips, kissing the soft gauze.
“Don’t,” I whispered against his skin.
Something shifted in him, rigid control fracturing. I maintained contact, kissed there again, lips lingering on rough gauze. He breathed in, then let out a shuddered sigh.
The small release encouraged me. I turned the arm, pressed lips to the wrist where his pulse raced. Warm flesh, alive with heartbeat. I let my mouth travel over the fabric of his shirt, each kiss a deliberate absolution.
“Selina.” My name was like a prayer on his lips.
I didn’t stop. My lips traced the bicep, shoulder slope, mapping to the hollow where neck met collarbone. When my mouth pressed there, he groaned, his voice torn from somewhere deep, unguarded.
The sound vibrated against my lips, raw, honest. The uninjured palm found my waist, fingers in my shirt, not pulling or pushing, just holding like he might drown.
I pulled back to look. Those pupils had darkened, dilated with something far from the operative’s clinical emptiness. This was Specter, human, flawed, wanting. The man who had fought impossible conditioning to find his way back. To me.
“I’m choosing this. Choosing you.”
Before doubt could take him, I leaned in and kissed him. Gentle first, offering myself, demanding nothing in return. He remained impassive for one heartbeat, two, then something broke. The grip went from waist to back, drawing me close as lips parted.
The balcony’s hesitancy gave way to something deeper. He moved with desperate hunger, like he could erase what had happened through this. I met the intensity, fingers in dark hair, holding him.
We broke apart, our foreheads touching, breaths mixing. His lids were closed, but tension had drained from his shoulders, leaving a different kind of vulnerability.
“Stay with me tonight,” I said in a barely audible whisper. “Just stay.”
His eyes opened, raw honesty evident in them. “I don’t trust myself.”
“Then trust me.” I stroked that cheek, feeling stubble. “I trust you enough for both of us.”