Page 23 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)
Maeve
I trailed my fingers across Reaper’s back, feeling the texture of his skin change slightly where the tattoo had been. Not removed—burned away, leaving a patch of scar tissue that puckered beneath my touch.
The pre-dawn light filtered through tattered blinds, casting bruised shadows across our tangled bodies. My skin still hummed where he’d touched me hours before, the memory of his hands making me hyper-aware of every point where we connected now.
A part of me still couldn’t believe we’d slept together last night, yet the rest of me was so at peace with it that I didn’t even question it. The way we fit together just… made sense. I had been on my own for so long, and now, I finally had someone to help me through all this.
“Rest,” Reaper murmured, his voice a low rumble against my shoulder as it broke through the noise inside my mind. His arm tightened around my waist, simultaneously possessive and distant—as if he’d remembered his programming and was now attempting to reestablish boundaries between us .
“Not yet,” I said, pressing my fingertips more firmly against the erased tattoo. Right now, I allowed most of my attention to be occupied by it. “Do you remember what it was? Before they took it away?”
His muscles coiled beneath my touch, and he remained silent.
I shifted, leaning up on one elbow to examine the injection wound on his shoulder.
The skin around the entry point had darkened to an unnatural blue-black, with thin tendrils spreading outward like poison roots seeking purchase.
When I touched the area, heat radiated against my fingertips, unnaturally intense.
Fuck. It seemed like a nasty infection. I had never seen anything like it before, and it was progressing—fast.
“This doesn’t look right,” I said, anxiety tightening my throat.
“Inconsequential,” he replied, but I caught the subtle tremor in his arm as he reached up to capture my wrist, stopping my examination. His skin burned against mine, fever-hot and slick with sweat despite the room’s damp chill.
“It’s not inconsequential,” I argued, twisting my wrist free. “You’re burning up.”
His eyes tracked to mine, pupils slightly dilated, the black nearly swallowing the blue. “Your concern is noted.”
“Stop that,” I snapped, sitting up. “Stop hiding behind their programming.”
Something raw flashed across his face—frustration, perhaps, or the struggle to maintain control when his body was betraying him .
“You need to see someone about this infection. You need to figure out what’s going on. Perhaps they can give you some antibiotics and...”
“No.” His response was simple but definite. I had a strong feeling this wasn’t something antibiotics could fix, but I wanted him to try, nonetheless. The thought of losing him now scared the hell out of me.
“Why the hell not?”
His lips twitched, almost as if he was amused by it. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Xavier was very much the same, always thinking he was stronger than whatever he had going on.
“Hospitals are easy to monitor. Not worth the risk.”
I clenched my jaw, doing my damn best not to give him a piece of my mind. I had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t change his mind, anyway.
“If you don’t want to go to the hospital,” I said, wrapping part of the sheet around me, “then let’s talk about what I found on the USB while you were gone.” His breathing had changed—too controlled, too measured, like he was fighting for each inhale.
“There’s a timeline,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear. “The Marionette Project wasn’t a single initiative. It evolved through what is called ‘generations’.”
Reaper remained on his side, eyes never leaving my face. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and I noticed his hand trembling slightly against the sheets.
“Many years ago, they launched the Prima generation. That’s you.” I watched his face carefully. “Prima subjects require regular chemical maintenance through injections. It’s why your handlers kept you on such a tight schedule.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “The check-ins.”
“Yes. The injections stabilize your conditioning and prevent memory retrieval.” I leaned closer. “The trigger words are part of it too—words that cause pain and reinforce their control. When your maintenance schedule is disrupted…”
Sweat beaded along his hairline now, trailing down his temple. He touched his forehead, a quick, almost imperceptible gesture that betrayed his discomfort.
“The Prima generation was revolutionary but flawed. Too many variables, too much maintenance,” I continued, my researcher’s voice taking over despite the fear gnawing at my insides. “So they created Secunda, with improved chemical durability, but still requiring periodic resets.”
Reaper shifted, his breathing more deliberate now. The bluish tinge around his injection wound had spread visibly in just the minutes since I’d first noticed it.
“Tertia followed two years later. They simplified the conditioning, made it less elaborate but more persistent.” I reached for his hand, alarmed at how his skin burned against mine despite the tremors running through him.
“Quarta came next, with further refinements to minimize maintenance requirements.”
Reaper’s focus drifted, eyes losing their sharpness before suddenly snapping back to clarity. His body jerked as though he’d been shocked.
“What was that?” I asked, my hand tightening around his .
“Nothing.” His voice sounded strained, stretched thin like a wire about to snap. “Continue.”
A cold dread settled in my stomach. “One year ago, they created Quinta—the ‘cleanest’ version yet. Minimal maintenance, heightened stability, nearly perfect retention of programming with almost no breakthrough of original memories.”
Reaper’s hand trembled violently in mine. The color had drained from his face, leaving his skin ashen except for two fever-bright spots high on his cheekbones.
“My brother Xavier is Quinta generation,” I said, my voice dropping.
“His code name is Blackout right now. I’ve seen a partially edited video of his…
treatment.” The memory of Xavier’s screams made my stomach clench.
No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to erase the sound of his screams from my head.
It burned right into my brain, forming a lump in my throat as I thought about it.
Factually, Reaper was considered ‘flawed.’ Efficient, but flawed.
He was a part of the first generation that required a lot of work to be perfected.
I suspected that was partially why I had been able to reach the humanity behind the persona they had created.
With all the work they put in before creating Quinta, I worried that reaching that same result with Xavier would be far more difficult.
But I forced myself to continue, regardless.
Reaper suddenly went rigid, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints. His entire body stiffened as though an electrical current was passing through him. For several terrifying seconds, no one looked out from behind those eyes—just emptiness, as though he’d simply… disappeared .
Then he gasped, his back arching slightly as he blinked rapidly, returning to himself.
“What just happened?” I asked, not bothering to hide my alarm. My hand found his shoulder, as if it could somehow ground him.
“Memory fragment,” he muttered, pressing his palm against his forehead as though trying to physically contain whatever was breaking loose inside his mind.
“The files indicate very few Prima subjects survived for long,” I said quietly. “Most were decommissioned within two years. You’ve lasted five.”
Reaper abruptly lurched upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He staggered, one hand shooting out to catch himself against the wall, fingers splayed wide for balance.
“I need water,” he said, the simple admission of physical need jolting me more than his sudden movement.
I scrambled after him, snatching his discarded t-shirt from the floor and pulling it over my head as I followed him to the small kitchen area. Early morning light now cut through the blinds in harsh strips that illuminated the blue-black lines spreading visibly up his neck and across his shoulder.
“Let me help,” I said, reaching for a glass from the drying rack by the sink.
He brushed my hand aside. “I can manage.” But his fingers trembled visibly as he turned on the faucet, belying his words.
When he reached for the glass, his coordination faltered completely. It slipped through his grasp, shattering against the metal sink with a sound that made me flinch .
“Damn it,” he muttered, knuckles going white as he gripped the counter edge for support.
“Sit before you fall down,” I said, moving quickly to his side. “Let me look at your wound again.” He didn’t move. My gaze narrowed. “Let me help you. Please.”
Reluctantly—the reluctance itself a sign of how bad things had become—he lowered himself onto a rickety kitchen chair. I touched his forehead, drawing back at the intensity of the heat radiating from his skin.
“You’re burning up,” I said, rising to wet a kitchen towel with cold water. “Whatever that toxin is, it’s spreading fast.”
I pressed the damp towel against his forehead. He closed his eyes briefly, the moment of surrender more terrifying than any resistance could have been.
“How bad is it?” he asked, voice rougher than before, as though the words scraped his throat on their way out.
My clinical examination shifted into something more intimate as I traced the dark lines spreading up his neck. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this.” And that worried me. We needed proper help to assess this, not to blindly guess what may be wrong.
He shivered violently under my touch, though his skin remained dangerously hot.
Something shifted in his expression then—confusion giving way to a flash of recognition that had nothing to do with me or our current situation. His eyes widened slightly, focusing on something only he could see.