Page 35 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

“It’s a system malfunction,” Brock cut him off, voice cold and certain.

“There is no scenario where every alarm would activate at once unless someone were manipulating the system. Find Security Chief Anders and have him implement countermeasures.” His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening.

“Now stop wasting time and administer the injection.”

The doctor swallowed hard but didn’t move. “The subject is approaching critical thresholds,” he argued, gesturing at monitoring equipment. “The compound is meeting unprecedented resistance. Her system is fighting back somehow.”

Brock’s voice carried the same cold detachment I remembered from my own conditioning, the tone that accompanied unimaginable pain. “Time is critical. Give her more compound.”

“You’re too impatient, sir. It could kill her. The readings are critical.”

Brock leaned forward, his expression hardening to granite. “The resistance reaction means the programming is working. Breaking through neural barriers. She’ll become the perfect handler-asset match with her brother. Complementary skills. Increase dosage. Now.”

The tone of his voice suggested he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the doctor must have known the price he would’ve paid for any more debate. The doctor hesitated, then reached for the IV drip control.

I calculated odds, mapping personnel positions, exit routes, and defensive capabilities. Every scenario ended with high casualty probability and uncertain extraction. The time window narrowed with each passing second.

Maeve’s body arched against the restraints, a silent scream contorting her face.

The sight tore through my programming like a blade through flesh.

Decision made.

I crashed through the medical chamber door with explosive force, metal hinges shearing under impact. The first guard pivoted toward the noise, training betrayed by startled instinct. My hands found pressure points at his neck before his weapon cleared the holster, rendering him unconscious.

The guard dropped, and the room froze in tableau: surgical lights casting harsh shadows across faces locked in terror.

A doctor and nurse stood paralyzed beside Maeve’s convulsing form. Their wide eyes darted between me and the fallen guard. Medical equipment beeped frantically, monitoring Maeve’s erratic vital signs as amber fluid pumped steadily through IV lines into her veins.

“Get out!” I yelled.

They didn’t need to be told twice. White coats fluttered as they fled, abandoning stations with practiced urgency. These people had seen what happened when assets malfunctioned. Professional ethics crumbled beneath the survival instinct.

Across Maeve’s trembling body, Brock stared at me.

His expression transformed from clinical detachment to recognition, then something I’d never seen on his face before…

fear. For the first time in my fractured memory, I saw genuine terror strip away his careful control.

I fought the urge to allow my lips to curve upward.

Oh, how much I had wanted to see this expression on his face.

Back then, when he had turned me into an asset, and right now, when he had taken Maeve away from me.

I had proved to be wrong. Brock was more stupid than I anticipated.

He didn’t see me coming. That was my advantage right now.

“Impossible,” he whispered, knuckles white against the surgical tray. He looked like he had seen a ghost. “She said you were dying.”

We stood motionless across Maeve’s prostrate form—handler and asset, creator and creation, partners before he betrayed me.

“Kill him,” he ordered the remaining guards, already backing toward a reinforced exit door. “I have preparations to make elsewhere.”

Three guards advanced towards me, weapons raised. Brock retreated, keycard already in hand.

“She’ll be like her brother soon,” he called over his shoulder, voice steady despite his rapid retreat. “I always collect the complete set.”

“You will not get away with this, Brock,” I called out, my voice cold .

“You were always the weapon,” Brock continued, punching access codes into the security panel, “but I was the brain behind our operations. I made you what you are. Now I’ll finally have the recognition I deserve.”

The reinforced door hissed shut behind him. The metallic click of the lock engaging ignited something primal within me.

The first guard fired. I moved before the sound completed, my body flowing between bullets with inhuman speed.

Not the mechanical precision of Reaper, but something more primal—the desperate efficiency of a man fighting for something irreplaceable.

His larynx yielded beneath calculated pressure, and unconsciousness was immediate.

The second guard backed away, weapon trained on center mass. I vaulted over a monitoring station, driving my knee into his solar plexus. Air whooshed from his lungs as he crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

The third guard emptied his magazine in panicked bursts.

I positioned myself to draw fire away from Maeve, dodging with controlled movements.

One bullet grazed my shoulder, hot pain that registered and dismissed in the same moment.

Three strides closed the distance between us.

My hand found the nerve cluster at the base of his neck, pressure applied.

His eyes rolled back as consciousness left him.

No unnecessary deaths. Maeve would want that. The thought surfaced with absolute certainty—her influence already changing how I operated.

The blood from the guards coated my hands, spattered across my face. I stood amid the carnage, breathing heavily—not from exertion but something I rarely allowed myself to feel: rage. The cold calculation of the assassin gave way to something raw and protective—something human.

Maeve’s monitor wailed a frantic symphony of warnings. Her body seized against the restraints, back arching as the amber compound continued to flow through the IV lines into her veins. What would it make her forget first? Her childhood? Her brother? Me?

I moved to her side, removing the restraints binding her limbs. The IV lines came next, extracted carefully from her veins.

“I’m here, Maeve,” I whispered against her ear, removing the final monitoring sensors. “Hang in there, I’m getting you out.”

Her skin burned against mine as I gathered her unconscious form in my arms. Her heart raced beneath my palm, pulse erratic and too fast. Whatever Brock had given her was still working through her system.

I could only hope I wasn’t too late. Either way, I wouldn’t give up. She hadn’t given up on me, either.

As I lifted her from the table, her eyes fluttered open—just for a moment. Her pupils were dilated, almost swallowing the green of her irises, but in that split second of consciousness, I saw recognition. Her fingers clutched weakly at my shirt before her eyes rolled back and she went limp again.

That single moment of connection hit harder than any bullet. She was still in there. Still fighting .

I cradled her against my chest, scanning the room for escape routes. My tactical assessment was clear—I could not fight effectively while protecting her unconscious form.

The facility systems were recovering from the chaos I had triggered.

One by one, the alarms silenced as control was reestablished.

Emergency bulkheads dropped, cutting off primary escape routes.

The compound shifted from evacuation to containment mode—designed to trap rather than expel.

Every monitored exit would soon be sealed, security teams converging from whatever access points remained functional.

Maeve’s shallow breathing hitched as another tremor coursed through her body. Her skin radiated fever-heat, heartbeat erratic beneath my palm.

Footsteps approached from three corridors—tactical formation, coordinated breach imminent.

I positioned myself with Maeve behind a reinforced medical console, calculating angles of fire and defensive positions.

My options collapsed with each passing second.

I couldn’t engage effectively while protecting her, but abandoning Maeve wasn’t an option.

A tactical dilemma with no optimal solution. For the first time, I understood true fear—not for myself, but for someone else.

The sound of violent combat erupted in the eastern corridor—gunfire, impact sounds, bodies falling. Someone fighting through security teams, moving toward our position with ruthless efficiency. I angled my body to shield Maeve as the door burst open .

Specter staggered through, bloodied but combat-ready.

His tactical gear showed multiple bullet impacts, crimson seeping from a shoulder wound.

Three weapons hung from his frame, all showing recent use.

His silver eyes scanned the room with professional assessment, cataloging the fallen guards before locking onto me.

“You look like you need extraction assistance,” he said matter-of-factly.

Specter ejected a spent magazine and then reloaded.

Blood dripped steadily from his shoulder, but he showed no acknowledgment of pain—another broken operative trait I recognized all too well.

“I’ve been delayed, but figured you’d need backup when you found her.

Had trouble getting rid of our sniper friend back there.

Found me on three separate rooftops before I neutralized the threat. ”

His gaze dropped to Maeve. Those silver-gray eyes cataloged her symptoms like someone intimately familiar with conditioning procedures. “Both compounds are in her system—bad reaction. Need to neutralize quickly. The counteragent is working, but she needs stabilization.”

“Why are you here?” I demanded, tension making my voice a raw scrape. My arm tightened around Maeve instinctively, protective. Trust didn’t come easily—especially not with another asset. We were made to work alone and made to eliminate loose ends.

Specter’s mouth tightened, something almost human crossing his features.

For a moment, I saw a flash of genuine emotion beneath the tactical exterior—the same fractures I felt in myself.

“We’re the only ones who understand what they make us do.

What they take from us. Maeve was the only person to ever dig deeper, more than anyone else. We owe her that much, do we not?”

Behind him, the corridor filled with sounds of approaching reinforcements—tactical boots against polished floors, weapons being readied. He sealed the door, jammed the access panel with a combat knife driven through control circuits.

“I’ll clear the path,” he said, checking weapon systems with practiced hands. “You carry her. The Northwest maintenance shaft leads to the loading bay. I have a vehicle waiting—armor plating, medical supplies.”

I adjusted Maeve against my chest, one hand cradling her head protectively. Her breathing grew shallower, and her pulse became increasingly erratic beneath my fingertips.

“An intervention team is inbound,” Specter said, moving to the sealed door.

“We need to reach the extraction point before Maeve’s system shuts down completely.

The chemicals they use are experimental—designed to wipe identity while preserving cognitive function and implanting absolute loyalty to her handler. ”

As we prepared to move, I pressed my lips against Maeve’s burning forehead—a gesture foreign but instinctive to whatever remained beneath it.

My hand found the spot over her heart, monitoring its desperate rhythm.

“Stay with me,” I whispered against her skin.

“I’m not letting you become what they made me. ”

Specter watched this display with narrowed eyes and a tightness at his jaw—something like envy mixed with wonder flickering behind his silver eyes. “You’re not what they programmed anymore,” he said quietly. “Neither of us is.”

He turned to the door, weapon ready. We moved in perfect synchronization—two broken assassins operating on shared programming yet somehow fighting against it.

Specter took point position, weapons ready.

I followed with Maeve cradled against my chest, monitoring each tremor that passed through her body.

As he prepared to breach the corridor, Specter glanced back. “If she turns like us, what will you do with her?”

The question cut through tactical calculations, touching something raw and human beneath years of conditioning.

She’d be a version far more advanced than me.

There was no way of saying if I’d ever be able to reach her again.

I looked down at Maeve’s face—even unconscious, fighting the chemicals reshaping her mind, she remained the only person who saw me as more than a weapon.

“She’s not becoming one of us,” I said, voice hardening with resolve. “Not while I’m breathing.”

A ghost of understanding passed across Specter’s features, perhaps even envy. “That’s why I’m helping. Someone should get out clean.”

He kicked the door open, stepping into the corridor with weapons raised. I followed, Maeve’s life fading in my arms as alarms blared and security forces converged on our position. For the first time since waking as Reaper, I had something worth dying for—keeping her from becoming like me.