Page 38 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

I thought I was going to die at first. In fact, a part of me was so utterly convinced it would happen that my brain refused to accept any other possibility as an option.

But days passed, and though it was still a struggle, my condition continued to stabilize.

Little by little, I regained my strength, and my mind wasn’t foggy anymore—though I was still far from being my old self.

Having Reaper next to me helped immensely. Looking back at when we first met, it was hard to believe he was capable of all the tenderness he had shown these past few days. Either way, I was more than sure it was what helped me recover.

It wasn’t long before I could move around the safe house, though my movements were still very much limited, and I spent most of my days sitting or lying down. Today was no exception.

I watched Reaper from my seat at the kitchen table, still as death except for the occasional tremor in my hands. They came less frequently now—just a reminder of what Brock’s compounds nearly did to my brain .

“I can help, you know.” My voice sounded less raspy today, which was another sign of improvement after proper rest and fluids that Reaper ensured I got.

Reaper didn’t turn from the stove. “No.”

Just that. One syllable with the finality of a closing door. I narrowed my eyes at his back.

“My coordination is better today,” I argued, flexing my fingers to prove it. On cue, a slight tremor passed through my right hand, betraying me. I wondered how long those would last—was this something that would leave a permanent mark on my body?

He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised slightly, having caught the tremor without even fully looking at me. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve been resting,” I muttered, slouching slightly in my chair. “It’s all I’ve been doing, really.”

The safehouse kitchen felt like a surreal stage set—an assassin making breakfast, a journalist with neurotoxin aftereffects slouching at the table.

Morning light filtered through half-drawn blinds but reinforced with clear panels that wouldn’t silhouette our movements from outside.

The domesticity might have fooled someone who didn’t notice the exit routes marked by slightly shifted furniture, or the way Reaper positioned himself with clear sightlines to both windows and the door.

“You keep staring at me,” Reaper said, his voice neutral but somehow carrying a question .

“I’m trying to reconcile versions of you,” I admitted. “The man who killed a dozen people to extract me is now making me breakfast.”

Something shifted in his posture—almost imperceptible, but I’d been studying him for days. “They’re not separate versions.”

“No,” I agreed quietly. “That’s what’s fascinating.”

He turned just enough that I caught his profile, the edge of his jaw tight with something unspoken. I’d noticed he did this when memories surfaced—a slight physical bracing, like his body prepared for pain that didn’t always come now.

“You called me Sofia,” I said, the words escaping before I could reconsider. “When you were delirious from the compound. You looked at me like you recognized me, but not as me.”

His hands stilled completely. The stillness of a predator interrupted.

“I don’t remember that,” he said finally, but the slight furrow in his brow betrayed him. I tilted my head.

“Sofia,” I repeated, watching him carefully. “The name meant something to you. You looked… desperate.”

Reaper’s jaw worked as he returned to the eggs, beating them with controlled force. “Another hole in my memory.”

“Does the name trigger anything now?” I pushed gently, the journalist in me unable to let go of a thread once pulled.

He placed the bowl down with deliberate care. “Nothing specific. But it feels…” His fingers flexed against the countertop. “Heavy. Like it’s carrying something important. ”

I nodded, swallowing the unexpected jealousy that rose in my throat.

It was ridiculous to feel territorial over a man whose real name I didn’t even know.

A man who until recently was programmed to kill me.

A man who might have someone out there waiting for him to remember them.

Of course, he had a life before me. I had a life before him, too, though it didn’t include many romantic endeavors.

My mind reeled. Now, these two versions of him were colliding, though.

Sooner or later, he may be forced to make a choice.

What would he choose? Who… would he choose?

My throat tightened at the thought, but I did my best to ignore it.

There were plenty of possible explanations.

Why did my mind have to jump to the worst one instantly?

“Finding out who she was might help recover more of your memories,” I offered, aiming for professional detachment and missing by miles.

“Maybe.” His eyes never left mine, reading me with that unsettling accuracy. “But right now, I remember something more immediately relevant.”

He placed a perfectly crafted omelet before me, then sat down with a different posture. The way he positioned himself, slightly leaning forward, reminded me of the focused intensity before a revelation during an interview.

“I knew Brock before.” His gaze met mine. “He was my partner.”

I put my fork down, losing interest in my food. My mouth gaped open as I tried to process his words. “Your partner?”

“In assassination.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the red poker chip, placing it deliberately between us. “Private contracts.” His tone remained steady, but I noticed the strain in his jawline. “We operated as a team. Until we didn’t.”

Again, I momentarily found myself at a loss for words.

He had worried that his previous life was worse than the one he had been shoved into under Brock’s guidance, but it turned out to be exactly the same.

More or less, at least. Still, this was good.

It meant he was fighting against the system.

It meant he stood a chance to get out of it entirely. “What happened?” I inquired gently.

“Clients began asking for me specifically. My reputation expanded. Brock’s…” He gave a slight shrug. “Didn’t.”

I observed the oddly hypnotic movement as his finger circled the edge of the chip.

“I remember specific kills now.” His voice dropped lower, something dangerous threading through it.

“A casino owner who eliminated competitors in Monaco. A judge who sentenced innocents in Buenos Aires.” A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“With each contract, Brock grew more resentful. Bitter that I was becoming the name people feared, not him.”

The tremor returned to my hand, but it was unrelated to Brock’s compounds this time. I clenched my fist to steady it. “So he betrayed you.”

Reaper confirmed with a nod, his gaze unfocused. “After a high-profile job in Rio. We were counting shares when he walked in with two men I didn’t recognize. He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You’re worth more to me as property than as a partner.’ ”

My breath hitched. “That’s when he sold you to Oblivion?”

“I got one hand on my weapon before the tranquilizer hit. As I went down, I told him, ‘I will remember this. And I will find you.’” Reaper’s voice had turned icy. “He merely smiled and said, ‘Where you’re going, you won’t remember anything at all.’”

I suppressed a shudder. The calculated cruelty of it—to strip someone of their identity, their memories, their very self—was more horrifying than a simple murder.

I stretched across the table and clasped his hand. His skin felt warm against mine. “But you did remember. Eventually, you remembered. You came out of it as a winner.”

“This hardly feels like a win. For now, at least.” He glanced down at our connected hands. “The conditioning couldn’t eliminate everything. Skills remained when memories vanished. Physical training. Languages. Tactical assessment.” He looked at our plates. “Even the trivial things like cooking.”

“And the chip?” I questioned.

A faint smile crossed his face. “My talisman. Won in my professional game in Macau. Carried it with me for every assignment afterward. They took everything else—my name, my past, even my face felt wrong in reflections—but somehow this has stayed with me.”

I was struck by how fundamentally different he seemed now—more present, more connected. He wasn’t completely whole, but the fragmented man I first encountered was integrating before my eyes, becoming something neither fully Reaper nor entirely the man he was before .

“These memories,” I said carefully, “aren’t they causing you pain like before?”

He shook his head. “It’s like a dam breaking. Once the first cracks appeared, everything started flowing back.” His eyes met mine. “And it all started with you, Maeve. Your presence, your voice—something about you weakened their barriers.”

“Not much of a Reaper anymore, are you?” I squeezed his hand. “You’re becoming someone with a past. A history.”

“I’m not sure who that makes me now,” he admitted. “Not fully Reaper, not fully who I was before.”

“Maybe that’s okay,” I suggested. “Maybe you get to decide who you become.” My hand tightened around his. “You need time to decide what direction to go in, and that’s perfectly fine. Don’t strain yourself. Don’t rush. You’ve already done such a big part of coming back.”

He contemplated this, turning the poker chip over in his fingers once more before tucking it away. “Time is one thing I feel like I’m running out of. And now I have a score to settle with Brock too.”

I fell silent as the implications of his returning memories settled between us.

Two predators with history, one stripped of identity and remade into something else, now regaining what was stolen.

There was something terrifying in it—what happens when an assassin trained and enhanced by Oblivion remembers exactly who to blame?