Page 36 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

The soft pitter-patter in the far distance echoed like a distant drum, setting the pace for my scattered thoughts. One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One.

Two.

Three.

I didn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t. I was here—but not quite. My body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else, but my mind… my mind was still mine. That had to count for something. That had to mean I wasn’t completely lost.

I didn’t know what would greet me when I finally opened my eyes. Maybe that was the real reason I stayed in the dark. There was safety in it, in not knowing. The not-seeing meant I didn’t have to face whatever awaited me outside this thin veil of half-consciousness.

Still, I pushed my senses out, desperate for any thread of information, anything to tell me where I was and what came next—every second counted. If Specter’s injection had worked—if it had done what he promised—then I’d have to use every moment wisely. One wrong move, and it was over.

Then, like a door flung open, the world started rushing back in.

Fast. Too fast. Smells, sounds, sensations—everything all at once.

It hit me like a wave, and I could barely keep my head above the surface.

My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard against the lump rising there.

Even that small action sent a flare of pain down my neck.

The wind whistled somewhere nearby, thin and sharp like it was moving through broken glass. Birds chirped faintly in the distance—light, melodic, and so out of place it almost felt cruel.

Where the hell was I?

There was no more time for procrastinating, I decided. I needed to make my move now.

When I tried to move, pain followed immediately. Every muscle screamed in protest, my head throbbing with each heartbeat, a steady pulse of agony behind my eyes. I still couldn’t open them. Had I gone blind?

I inhaled, testing the air. I focused on what I could smell. Dust. Mildew. Old wood and something earthy that reminded me of attics and abandoned spaces. Not antiseptic. Not sterile, like I remembered.

Not Brock’s facility.

My heart rate spiked at the thought of his name, pounding so hard I felt it in my fingertips. That man was evil beyond anything I could ever comprehend. Everything he had done to Reaper, Specter, me…to Xavier .

A white room flashed behind my closed eyelids.

Clinical. Cold. Metal chair. Restraints cutting into my wrists.

I couldn’t move. I was helpless, at the mercy of my captors.

But my brother was there. I had seen him with my own two eyes.

With each step he took in my direction, I could see the man I loved so dearly was erased.

This was a shell of a man. A mechanical device to carry out bloody missions.

Xavier approached me. Eyes flat and empty. His hand raised and collided with my cheek. He had never raised his hand at me before. That was how I knew he was gone.

The sting of his palm across my face.

My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. Finally, I forced my eyes open.

A ceiling I didn’t recognize came into focus. Water stains formed continents on yellowing plaster. A hairline crack ran from one wall to a crooked light fixture.

Nothing familiar. Nothing safe.

I tried to sit up. The room tilted violently. My stomach lurched, threatening to empty itself. I fell back against the pillow, gasping for air. I was unsafe. I had to run, yet, my body was beyond my control.

My limbs wouldn’t obey simple commands. My body felt like borrowed machinery, and the operation manual was missing.

Fear climbed up my throat. What had they done to me? Was this how it started for Reaper—this disconnect between mind and body?

I turned my head to the side, fighting another wave of nausea.

This time, I couldn’t hold it back. The remains of whatever I had eaten last spilled over the floor, just in time as I managed to reach over my bed.

I gasped for air—though there wasn’t much for me to empty.

Still, it left an odd, burning sensation in its way, like this wasn’t a part of my new, standard procedure.

Dizziness swirled the world around me, making it difficult to focus on anything around me. It felt like I may return to darkness at any point now, but then…my eyes locked on him.

Reaper. He was slumped in a wooden chair beside the bed, head tipped forward in exhausted sleep, but the moment he heard me, his eyes snapped open. The result of his programming, undoubtedly. He was taught to detect danger.

Was that who I was right now?

He rushed toward me, helping me steady myself back on the bed.

“I’m right here,” he said. Softly. Soothingly. Wait…I remembered him. His face. His voice. His presence. I knew who he was. Did that mean Brock hadn’t succeeded?

I opened my mouth to speak, but it was painful and dry. Too painful.

“Take it easy,” Reaper said, bringing a glass of water to my lips.

Now, more things around us caught my attention.

A white bandage peeked from beneath his torn shirt, spotted with blood.

Dark stubble covered his jaw, thicker than I remembered from the favela safehouse.

Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes. His weapons rested within reach—a handgun on the nightstand, knife strapped to his thigh.

I sipped on the water he had given me, struggling with each sip. His eyes remained locked on me, staring as if I were his salvation. The only thing that mattered.

I remembered him.

Remembered how we met. How he protected me. How he saved me. How he nearly died.

“You’re awake.” The relief in his voice cut through his usual control. Slowly, he moved the glass away from my mouth, placing it on the small side table. I wanted to apologize for the mess I’d made when I threw up, but I couldn’t force the words past my lips.

“Don’t try to talk yet.” He slid an arm behind my shoulders, supporting my weight as he helped me sit up.

The room tilted alarmingly, but his arm was steady, anchoring me against the vertigo.

Nothing made sense. How did I get here? Where were we?

It took a few moments for my surroundings to fully settle in and for me to realize I wasn’t in danger.

“Where are we?” I managed, my voice raspy but functional.

“Safe house outside S?o Paulo.” He set the glass down but didn’t return to the chair, instead perching on the edge of the bed. “Specter arranged it.”

I glanced around the room with more focus now. The peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling suggested age, but it was clean. A small table held an array of medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, an IV bag, and several unlabeled vials.

“How long?”

“Two days.” His eyes never left my face, assessing. “You’ve been unconscious since we got you out. ”

Two days. The knowledge sat heavy in my stomach.

How did they get me out? How did he find me?

What happened to him while I was away? So many questions lined up, yet it was difficult to voice them.

I remained silent for a long moment, trying to process everything, which was difficult, given that there were so many things I couldn’t recall fully.

“The compound they used...”

“Designed to break down identity centers in the brain,” he finished. “Specter gave me an antigen after the extraction. I administered it once we were here.”

My fingers drifted to the needle marks on my arm. Beneath my touch, the skin twitched involuntarily. Blue-black veins radiated outward from each puncture, fading to a sickly green at the edges.

“Your system is clearing it,” he said, nodding toward my arm. “The color’s fading.”

I noticed now the evidence of his vigil—a blanket and pillow on the floor beside my bed, protein bar wrappers and water bottles neatly stacked. He hadn’t left me.

“The safe house is isolated,” he continued. “Ten kilometers to the nearest neighbor. Reinforced doors and a security system with motion sensors covering a half-kilometer perimeter.”

I realized I was wearing different clothes—soft cotton pants and an oversized t-shirt. Not what I wore to Café Bella.

“Did you...” I looked down, unsure how to ask.

“Your clothes were contaminated.” His voice remained matter-of-fact. “I had to clean the injection sites properly. I was… careful.” The slight hesitation was his only ac knowledgment of the intimacy. “There are clean towels and clothes when you’re strong enough to shower.”

Another tremor shook my hand. Without comment, Reaper reached out and steadied it with his own. His touch was warm, solid—an anchor against the trembling. I turned my palm upward, threading my fingers through his.

His eyes met mine, a question in them.

I was safe—or, at least, so I told myself—yet there was one thought that refused to abandon the depths of my mind. It was all I could think about.

“I need to know you’re real,” I whispered. “That I made it back.”

Something shifted in his expression—a softening I never would have believed possible when he first tracked me through S?o Paulo.

“You should rest,” he said, starting to pull away.

I gripped his hand tighter, not wanting him to go. “Reaper.”

The sound of his name stopped him. He remained perched on the edge of the bed, tension radiating from him. His gaze narrowed as he stared at me. And though he felt more like… him, something was brewing right below the surface. I could see that much.

He was mad.

Had the roles been reversed, I would’ve been angry, too.

But what other choice did I have? I couldn’t leave my brother behind, and I definitely couldn’t have handed him over to Brock.

God knew what he would have done to Reaper.

Just like Xavier had taught me, I had calculated the risks, and I made the decision that made the most sense. As simple as that.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I had to...”

“Had to what?” The words exploded from him, sharp and jagged. “Walk straight into his hands?” He stood abruptly, pacing like a caged animal. “Do you have any idea what I saw when I found you?”