Page 20 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Apologize . The word itself felt foreign in my mind. Assassins didn’t apologize. Assets didn’t feel remorse.

But I do.

Her face looked different in sleep. The wariness that tightened her features when awake had smoothed away. But determination remained etched in the set of her jaw. Even unconscious, she fought. Against what horrors did she continue searching while I retreated from my own past?

The memory of our kiss in the maintenance closet hit me without warning. Her body pressed against mine in that narrow space. The way she grabbed my shirt, pulled me to her with desperation that matched my own. My heart rate increased. Blood rushed to my face. Combat response ?

No. Something else entirely. Something that made my skin feel too tight, my chest too full.

Physical response outside acceptable parameters. Chemical recalibration required.

My programming wasn’t just fracturing to reveal my past. It was cracking open to something I never anticipated: a future. Possibilities beyond the next mission, the next target.

She shivered slightly in her sleep, and the decision formed without tactical calculation. I moved toward her, careful not to wake her as I slid one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back.

I lifted her from the chair, surprised at how light she was.

Her body curled against mine, seeking warmth even in sleep.

I’d carried targets before—wounded assets, dead weight—but never felt this strange hollowness in my chest, this awareness of how breakable she was against my hands trained to destroy.

Proximity alert. Target vulnerable. Elimination optimal.

The programming whispered, but its voice grew fainter with each passing second.

Her head settled against my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. I adjusted my grip, conscious of every point where we touched. The curve where her neck met her shoulder. The weight of her legs across my arm. The way her hair slid across my skin like water.

My hands didn’t feel like my own. They trembled, these weapons that had ended lives without hesitation, now unsteady with the task of carrying her to the bed without waking her .

The narrow mattress sat against the far wall, thin sheets rumpled. The room felt too small suddenly, too intimate in the fading afternoon light filtering through cracked blinds.

I laid her down carefully, trying to pull away before—

She stirred against me, a small murmur escaping her lips.

Her fingers gripped my arm instinctively, then relaxed.

Her eyelids fluttered, fighting consciousness, before finally opening.

Her eyes found mine in the dim light. Something passed across her face—relief, recognition, something else I couldn’t name that made my chest tighten.

“You came back,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep.

Three simple words. They hit harder than any combat training I’d endured.

Before I could step back, her fingers caught in my shirt, tugging me closer. Not a demand—a question. One I didn’t know how to answer.

Maintain distance from the target. Physical proximity creates vulnerability. Disengage immediately. Last warning before system override.

The instructions flashed like warning lights in my mind. But I didn’t move.

Her hand slid up, touched my face. Palm warm against my jaw. “I thought you’d gone for good.”

“I needed...” My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Raw. Human. “I don’t know what I needed.”

Protocol violation. Asset JD-2741 compromised. Recall initiated .

The programming screamed, a high-pitched whine like metal tearing. Pain lanced through my skull. I tasted copper on my tongue.

Maeve rose slightly on her elbows, eyes never leaving mine. The distance between us shrank. Her lips parted. I cataloged the action automatically—tactical assessment, approach vector—then stopped myself.

Not a threat. Not a target.

She pulled me closer, and her mouth touched mine. Soft. Warm. Without calculation or strategy.

I froze completely.

Terminate contact. Physical engagement compromises mission parameters. Final warning.

The programming screamed in my head. But something else rose against it—want. Need. Hunger for something I never knew existed until this moment.

Her lips moved against mine, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence when I didn’t pull away. My entire body became a battlefield—the killer they made versus the man fighting to exist.

Her fingers tightened in my shirt. A small sound escaped her throat. The war inside me tipped.

I chose.

My hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head as I deepened the kiss. Not following programming. Not responding to orders. Choosing. Her. This moment. Whatever came next.

She tasted like instant coffee and possibility. Her body arched against mine. Every nerve felt raw, exposed. I’d never experienced touch without tactical purpose—never felt my skin ignite under someone else’s hands.

My fingers traced the curve of her neck, mapping territory I’d never allowed myself to want before. Her pulse raced beneath my touch. Mine matched it, systems accelerating beyond parameters I recognized.

She pulled me down beside her on the bed, hands exploring with increasing confidence. Each brush of her fingers dismantled another piece of my conditioning. Each kiss erased another mission directive.

“Is this okay?” she whispered against my mouth.

No one had ever asked what I wanted. What I needed. What I chose.

“Yes,” I answered, my voice unrecognizable to myself. Human. Wanting.

Her hands slid under my shirt, warm against my skin. I shivered—not from cold, not from fear. From sensation without purpose beyond itself.

I should have stopped this. Assets didn’t feel. Assets didn’t want. Assets completed missions.

Protocol violation complete. Asset status: compromised. Retrieval team dispatched.

The voice grew distant, a radio losing signal. I silenced it with another kiss.

But I wasn’t an asset tonight. I was a man finding my way back to myself through her touch.

Maeve tugged at my shirt, a question in her eyes. I answered by helping her remove it. Her hands explored the scars that mapped my history—a history I still didn’t remember—with gentle fingertips instead of clinical assessment.

My thumb brushed the red poker chip in my pocket one last time before I let it fall to the floor beside the bed. Whatever it meant, whoever I was, could wait until morning. Tonight was about who I was choosing to become.

For the first time since they unmade me, I chose. Not for the mission. Not for survival.

For her. For them. For the man I might become.