Page 26 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)
The video of my brother replayed in my mind. His vacant eyes. The way he had flinched. What had they done to him? What were they still doing? Was there still a way for me to save him? Or was he too far gone?
No, I refused to accept that possibility.
That was my brother, for God’s sake. He taught me to throw a punch when I was twelve.
A boy kept pulling my hair. The teacher told me he was doing that because he ‘liked’ me, and Xavier taught me to fight back.
When I got my first real job interview, he waited outside because he knew I was nervous.
And when I told him it had gone terribly, he had taken me out for ice cream.
I landed another job two weeks later. All because he taught me that one failure wasn’t the end of the world.
He’d read everything I had ever written, too.
He’d call me, just to tell me how damn proud he was of me when my articles made it to the newspapers.
He’d always been the one person I could count on when the whole world turned its back.
And I’d done this to him. My investigation, my pursuit, my refusal to believe he was dead—it had brought Brock’s attention straight to us both.
A strangled moan from the bed yanked me back to the present. Reaper thrashed weakly, his body twisting against unseen restraints. The blue-black lines had spread further, creeping up his jaw toward his temple like toxic vines. His skin glistened with sweat, flush with fever.
“Reaper,” I called, scrambling to his side. “Can you hear me?”
No response. Just the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest and the accelerating spread of poison through his veins. I pressed my hand to his forehead and yanked it back—his skin burned like fire .
“Shit, shit, shit .”
I grabbed my phone and dialed the informant’s number again. Nothing but static, then a mechanical voice: “This number is no longer in service.”
“Damn it!” I hurled the phone onto the bed. What was I supposed to do? I had less than two hours to save both Reaper and Xavier, with no resources, no backup, and a homicidal organization hunting us.
I rushed to the bathroom, soaking a towel in cold water. When I returned, Reaper’s condition had deteriorated further. The veins at his temples pulsed visibly, starkly blue against his too-pale skin. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps.
“Hold on,” I whispered, laying the compress across his forehead. “Just hold on. You can’t leave me now, alright? I need you. I need you with me.”
His eyes flew open suddenly, unseeing and unfocused. “System… compromised,” he gasped, voice mechanical and detached—nothing like the man who’d held me hours before. “Initiating… countermeasures.”
“Reaper, it’s me. It’s Maeve.” I gripped his shoulders, desperate to break through whatever programming had taken over. “Stay with me. Fight it.”
His body went rigid beneath my hands, back arching off the mattress as tremors seized his muscles. I frantically tried to keep him from hurting himself, struggling to hold his larger frame as convulsions ripped through him.
“No, no, no!” I cried, using my full weight to stop him from toppling off the bed. “Please! ”
His seizure intensified, violent tremors shaking the entire bed frame.
Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, tinged with blood.
The blue lines pulsed visibly now, spreading faster across his face.
I watched in horror as they branched across his cheeks, down his throat, following the paths of veins and arteries.
I raced to the bathroom again, dunking every towel I could find into ice-cold water.
When I returned, Reaper’s body had gone completely rigid, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
I laid the cold compresses wherever I could—his forehead, neck, chest, wrists—but they seemed to make no difference. His temperature continued climbing.
“Help me,” I whispered to no one, tears streaming down my face as I watched this man—this weapon turned human—dying before my eyes. “Somebody help us.”
I tried to pry his jaw open to keep him from biting his tongue, but his muscles were locked tight. More blood-tinged foam leaked from the corner of his mouth. His eyes had rolled back, showing only whites shot through with blue-black lines.
I frantically wiped Reaper’s face with another cold compress, trying to lower his temperature while monitoring his seizure. His entire body convulsed again, nearly throwing me off the bed.
“Please,” I sobbed, unsure who I was begging.
I just knew that I desperately needed help.
I needed someone to tell me what to do. How to proceed.
“Please don’t die. I can’t lose you both.
I can’t do this alone,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to his burning chest. “I need you to fight. Come back to me. ”
His only response was another violent spasm, his limbs jerking like a marionette with tangled strings.
“What you’re doing is useless.”
The voice came from directly behind me—low, authoritative, completely unexpected. I whirled around, heart hammering against my ribs.
A man stood in the doorway. He hadn’t been there seconds ago. I hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t caught even a whisper of movement.
I lunged for my bag, where I’d stashed the gun from Reaper’s safehouse.
“That won’t be necessary.” The stranger moved with unnatural fluidity, crossing the room before my fingers could close around the weapon. “If I wanted either of you dead, you wouldn’t have seen me at all.”
I threw myself across Reaper’s convulsing body, using my own as a shield. “Stay back!”
The intruder’s cold silver-gray eyes assessed me before dismissing me entirely.
Everything about him screamed danger, from his coiled stillness to the predatory grace of his movements.
The thin scar along his jawline looked surgical rather than accidental, and when he turned his head, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a barcode tattoo behind his ear.
“I’m your informant, in the flesh. My name is Specter,” he said, voice low and controlled.
I felt caught between terror and desperate relief. The ghost from the screen had materialized when we needed him the most—but his sudden appearance without warning set off every alarm bell in my head .
“How did you get in here?” I demanded, still positioned between him and Reaper.
The man tilted his head slightly. “The same way anyone gets in anywhere. Through the door.” A ghost of something like humor flickered across his face. “I just make less noise about it than most. Now let me see him.”
Something in his voice triggered memories of Reaper’s earliest interactions with me, but with subtle differences. This man had been through conditioning, but he’d recovered more of himself—or was hiding less of his damage.
I hesitated, weighing our limited options. Reaper’s convulsions were worsening, the blue-black lines spreading visibly by the second. If this man were truly our ally, he was Reaper’s only chance. I didn’t have any other choice. Perhaps my begging had paid off, after all.
The stranger immediately leaned over his thrashing form, hands moving with practiced efficiency as he checked pulse, pupil dilation, and lines tracing patterns beneath his skin.
“How long has he been like this?” he asked, peeling back Reaper’s eyelid.
“The seizure started about an hour ago,” I answered, watching his every move. “The blue lines have been spreading for hours.”
“It’s getting into his neural tissue.” He glanced at me, something like concern in his eyes. “Without help, he won’t last the night. And what would come after might be worse than death.”
He nodded once. His fingers worked methodically over Reaper’s body, but his voice had a halting quality, as if he was still relearning the rhythm of normal conversation.
“Second generation—they call us ‘Secunda.’ Started remembering fragments of…before. Been investigating while keeping my cover intact.”
“I just spoke to Brock,” I said, the memory of that conversation sending fresh waves of nausea through me. “He said the compound wasn’t meant for Reaper—it was designed to begin my conditioning. There is no antidote.”
Specter’s hands stilled for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
“Well, that changes the equation.” He returned to his examination with renewed urgency.
“Explains why it’s moving so fast. Prima metabolism would treat it as an attack, not a modification.
Fighting it instead of absorbing it as it’s already modified. ”
He pulled back Reaper’s eyelid again, revealing whites now threaded with blue-black lines. “His Prima metabolism is fighting the compound, but losing. Without intervention, he’ll experience complete neural collapse.”
“Will he die?” I forced myself to ask, though I dreaded the answer.
“Death would be merciful compared to what’s coming,” Specter said quietly, a haunted look crossing his face. “I’ve seen what happens when an operative’s neural pathways fragment but don’t shut down. It’s… not something I’d wish on anyone.”
Specter pressed two fingers against Reaper’s carotid artery, his brow furrowing. “Prima operatives were built to adapt, to heal. If we can slow the compound enough…” He trailed off, clearly uncertain .
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small metal case. Inside, nestled in foam cutouts, were three syringes filled with a milky white substance.
“What is that?” I asked, eyeing the syringes with equal parts hope and suspicion.
“Insurance policy I stole before leaving.” His voice dropped, and something dark flashed in his eyes. “They keep it for the handlers in case of accidental exposure. I’ve been saving it for myself in case my conditioning started to return.”
His fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the syringes. “Never thought I’d use it on another operative.”