Page 1 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Reaper

At last, there she was .

I had lost track of all the time I had spent tracking her, almost to the point where it was difficult to believe she stood right in my line of sight.

Maeve Durham. Journalist. Dead woman walking.

Despite efforts to blend in, she stood out—shoulders hunched, head down, but her eyes darted too frequently.

Pure prey behavior. She tried to make herself as small as possible, wanting to get lost in the crowd surrounding her, but she was like a beacon during the stormy night out at sea.

The way she checked over her shoulder every twelve steps told me she knew she was being hunted. She just didn’t know by whom.

Fog crawled through República Square like a living thing, dense enough that neon signs from surrounding buildings sliced through it, bleeding wounds of pink and blue.

The air tasted of diesel exhaust and fried street food, heavy with moisture that clung to exposed skin.

Not to mine. I didn’t sweat. Didn’t fidget.

I didn’t breathe differently when stalking a target.

After all, this was what I did. This was what I was good at .

Space formed around me as I moved. Civilians sensed danger without understanding it.

Their animal brains registered the predator while their conscious minds remained oblivious.

It was fascinating, really, just how much they were willing to look away from the danger that lurked right before them.

A businessman in an expensive suit glanced my way, caught my eyes, then immediately altered his path. Smart man.

I maintained exactly twenty-seven meters between us.

Close enough to respond if she bolted, far enough to remain invisible.

She checked her phone again—the third time in two minutes.

The screen illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows across features I’d studied in photographs but seemed somehow different in person. More… alive.

She moved toward the eastern exit. The underground parking structure waited there like a concrete tomb. Either she was smarter than she appeared or luck favored her today. It wouldn’t matter.

A street vendor stepped into my path. “Watch where you’re...”

His words died when our eyes met. It was the effect I often had on those around me. He backed away without another sound, knocking over a stack of newspapers. The headlines mentioned a corporate scandal. Irrelevant.

My target turned at the noise, and the square’s neon bathed her face. The green light illuminated features with tension. She tucked a strand of dark reddish hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. The gesture drew my attention to her neck. Pulse visible. Elevated rate. She was nervous .

The mission file didn’t mention the freckle just below her jawline. Small like a target marker. My focus lingered on it a moment too long.

I blinked. Tactical assessment only , I reminded myself.

She turned away, quickening her pace. The crowd thinned as she approached the parking structure entrance.

My steps adjusted automatically, maintaining distance.

When she disappeared down the concrete ramp, I followed.

My hand brushed against the weapon concealed at my waist—a reflexive gesture, unnecessary. I never missed. Never hesitated.

Never questioned .

The metal taste filled my mouth—copper and steel. Anticipation, perhaps. The hunt neared completion. It had always been a bittersweet moment to bring my missions to an end. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, but, ultimately, all of them had to come to an end.

The parking structure swallowed her whole.

I descended after her, my footsteps silent against the concrete.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered arrhythmically, casting multiple shadows that stretched and distorted.

My focus remained absolute, yet I recalled how the light had caught her eyes in the square.

They were amber with gold flecks. Another thing the file hadn’t specified.

Another irrelevant detail that shouldn’t have registered.

This momentary distraction irritated me like a splinter under perfect skin.

Maeve Durham. Journalist. Eliminate .

Level P1 stretched before me, half-empty. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, transforming each vehicle into a potential hiding place. Not that I needed concealment. I was invisible because I chose to be.

I spotted her twenty meters ahead, moving toward a blue sedan.

Her hand dipped into her coat pocket, clutching something.

Keys, most likely. Possibly a weapon. I adjusted my approach angle, calculating the threat profile.

Civilian with improvised weapon: minimal risk.

I’d eliminated targets armed with military-grade hardware without breaking rhythm.

She glanced back. I was already behind a concrete pillar, perfectly still. Her eyes scanned the area, lingering near my position before moving on. Better instincts than most. The file labeled her “standard civilian threat level.” Clearly incorrect.

When she turned away, I resumed my pursuit. Seventeen meters now. The gap now closed.

Target isolated. Proceed with elimination. The thought formed in my mind, mechanical and certain.

But beneath it, something else stirred. Not the clean anticipation of completion.

Something… messier. A hunger to see her expression when she realized.

The width of her pupils when fear peaked.

The sound she’d make when—I shut down the thought.

Unprofessional. Inefficient . This had never happened to me before, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to let it happen now.

I could have ended this from my current position with a 98.

7% success probability. But closer was better. Closer meant certainty.

Her pace quickened. She took a sharp turn toward the ramp leading to P2. The lower level. Fewer vehicles. Fewer witnesses. She was moving deeper into isolation, exactly as I anticipated.

I followed, mapping the environment with each step. Three support columns provided cover. Two stairwell exits. One security camera was on the far wall—non-operational, judging by the dust accumulation on its housing. Perfect .

She reached P2 and froze. The level stood nearly empty—four vehicles scattered across fifty spaces. Exposed. Vulnerable. Her head turned, seeking something. Or someone . I was already moving to cut off her escape route, circling wide to approach from her blind side.

When she glanced back, the familiar satisfaction of prey sensing the predator too late struck me. For just a fraction of a second, I considered extending this phase, drawing out the hunt. The thought formed unbidden, disturbing in its unprofessionalism.

Her breathing changed—audible even at this distance. Quick and shallow. The fight-or-flight response was activated. Her body was preparing for what her conscious mind still denied.

Ten meters.

The distance between us narrowed with each step.

Concrete swallowed my footfalls while amplifying hers.

The air down there tasted stale—exhaust fumes trapped in cold concrete.

And something else. Fear. Her fear had a scent—sharp, metallic, almost sweet.

I could easily get myself lost in it if I wasn’t careful enough.

Seven meters .

Maeve stopped abruptly, pulling something from her pocket. The phone screen illuminated her face, casting harsh shadows that accentuated the fear in her expression. Her fingers moved rapidly across the surface.

Four meters.

A faint smile touched my lips. I didn’t fight it. The sensation was… unfamiliar. When was the last time I smiled during an operation?

When was the last time I smiled at all?

The question appeared from nowhere, disrupting operational focus—a momentary glitch in my processing.

Three meters.

She spun suddenly, scanning the shadows, and froze. Our eyes locked across the distance. Recognition dawned in hers—not of me personally, but of what I represented. Death, approaching with measured steps.

Her hand plunged back into her pocket, withdrawing something that caught the light.

Not a phone. A knife. Small but practical switchblade with a serrated edge.

The file didn’t mention combat training, either.

Was there anything that file did get accurately?

Annoyance spiked through me. That would most likely require a stern conversation later on.

Some things in my business would have to be changed.

For now, though, my pulse quickened. A flicker of… what ? Not concern. Interest, perhaps.

I closed the distance in three steps.

Her knife slashed where I stood a fraction of a second ago.

Amateur technique but determined execution.

I pivoted, avoiding the blade with minimal movement, then captured her wrist. One twist—not enough to break, just enough to send pain signals racing through nerve endings. The knife clattered on the concrete.

“Don’t,” I said, the word unnecessary but automatic. I expected her to scream. After all, that was what most humans instinctively did when facing danger, and she stood right before one. Much to my surprise, which didn’t happen often, no sound left her lips.

Instead, she tried to knee me. I blocked with my thigh, then swept her legs.

She fell hard but scrambled up faster than I anticipated, backing away.

Her eyes were wide with fear, but somehow, she still managed to remain silent.

It would be easy for her to yell to get attention, even in this isolated parking lot.

But she didn’t. Likely didn’t want to draw too much attention.

I followed, unhurried. Allowing her the illusion of resistance. There was nowhere to go. The parking level stretched empty in all directions, after all. Her back hit a wall. Trapped.