Page 39 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

My mind kept racing. Oblivion. Each time I merely thought about it, a chill ran through me involuntarily, as if the word alone was the announcement of something far beyond what any of us could imagine .

“I think… I think the Marionette Project isn’t the only thing we need to worry about.

Oblivion stands behind it. And God knows what they’re up to,” I murmured.

During my capture, it felt like the Marionette Project was merely a tiny piece of a puzzle in the grand scheme of things.

Reaper remained silent, letting me continue.

“It’s the umbrella organization that took over the project after the government abandoned it.

” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.

“I’d been looking for months and never found that name in any of my research.

Brock mentioned it, but it looked like he regretted it immediately. ”

“What did Brock tell you?” he asked.

“Not much. He said they weren’t just creating assassins—they were ‘reshaping human potential.’ Called it ‘necessary evolution.’”

“Justifying torture as advancement.” Reaper’s lips curled with disgust. “Classic megalomaniac rhetoric.”

The tremor returned to my hand, but this time it was anger, not weakness.

I clenched my fist to steady it. “They talk about conditioning like it’s ascension instead of violation.

Like they’re doing their subjects a favor by stripping away their humanity.

” I took a breath, recalling the strange shift in Brock’s demeanor.

“Brock also mentioned someone above him—they call him ‘The Director.’”

“Not by name?” Reaper asked, watching me carefully.

“No. He said this person ‘prefers to remain theoretical to those outside the inner circle.’” I paused, remembering the most unsettling part of that conversation. “But what was strange was Brock’s reaction when he talked about him.”

“How so?”

“Fear.” I let the word hang between us. “Not nervousness or respect—actual fear. The man who calmly ordered my brother to hit me, who spoke about rewiring human brains like discussing a software update, went pale when he mentioned his boss.”

Reaper leaned forward slightly, something predatory awakening in his posture. “That’s significant. Men like Brock don’t fear easily.”

“It made me realize we’re seeing just the operational level of something much larger,” I continued. “Brock may have been your handler, but he’s middle management at best.”

Reaper sat back in his chair, expression thoughtful. “That tracks with fragments I remember. Handlers speaking in whispers about ‘him’ being pleased or displeased. Certain missions requiring ‘approval from above.’”

“I noticed something else, too,” I continued. “Different operatives had different protocols. Those directly selected by the Director appeared to have more… specialized conditioning.”

“Like me.” His voice was low.

I nodded. “Brock implied the Prima generation—your generation—was handpicked by the Director himself. Called you ‘proof of concept.’”

Reaper’s jaw tightened. “Lab rats for his grand vision.”

“If we can identify this Director…” I began.

“We find the head of the snake.” Reaper finished the thought, meeting my gaze with newfound intensity .

“Exactly. Oblivion probably has assets embedded who knows where—government positions, security firms, military units.”

“And each one conditioned to obey without question.” Reaper stood, collecting our plates with mechanical efficiency. “A global network of perfect weapons.”

I watched him move to the sink. “The Director might control operations beyond just the Marionette Project. Criminal enterprises, corporate espionage—who knows how far it extends?”

“A shadow empire.” Reaper’s hands stilled under the running water. “With untraceable soldiers who don’t even know they’re serving.”

The kitchen felt suddenly smaller, the weight of what we were facing pressing in from all sides.

This wasn’t just about saving Xavier anymore.

This was something far more vast and dangerous than I’d imagined.

Men like Brock and the Director could pull all the strings from the shadows if this project were fully operative.

It was one thing we couldn’t allow to happen.

A scene started playing before my eyes. I saw Xavier at twelve years old, standing between me and our foster father during one of his drunken rages.

He had just come home from the bar, drunk out of his mind, and demanded I bring him yet another beer.

Only there wasn’t any in the fridge. And, in the middle of the night, I couldn’t go to the store to get him one.

Especially not when I had no money. Blood trickled from Xavier’s split lip as he faced down a man twice his size.

“Go to your room, Mae,” he’d said, chin raised despite the bruise already forming. He had always been my protector.

“Xav…” I murmured, shaking my head.

“Your room. Now. I got this.”

The image shifted to the cold facility room, Xavier’s vacant eyes as he struck me on command.

Not my brother anymore—Blackout, an emptied vessel filled with Oblivion’s programming.

I fought the burn behind my eyes at the memory.

He had protected me so many times in my life—I owed it to him to save him from this now.

“We’re massively outmatched,” I whispered, the reality crushing down on me. “Two people against a global organization with unlimited resources. And even if we somehow found Xavier, what then? What if they’ve made his conditioning permanent?”

Reaper turned from the sink, his eyes sharp on my face. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m being realistic,” I countered, but my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. “We don’t have the resources, the manpower.”

“We have something better,” Reaper interrupted, his voice steady. “When I extracted you from Brock’s facility, I secured intelligence.”

This caught my attention completely. “What kind of intelligence?”

“Hard drives. Four of them.” He crossed his arms. “I got to the server room while searching for you. Secondary objective—automatic response. My hands moved before my conscious mind registered what I was doing. Disconnecting, securing. I had them bagged before I even reached the medical wing where they were keeping you.”

My heart raced. “What’s on them?”

“Nothing we can access yet. Military-grade encryption.” His expression turned grimmer. “But given where I found them—the central server room, behind biometric security—they contain operational data. Perhaps files on all their conditioned assets.”

“Including Xavier.” The smallest wave of relief flooded me, though I was still too worried to let myself get lost in it entirely.

He nodded. “Conditioning protocols. Chemical formulations. Command structures.”

“The Director.” Even saying the title sent ice through my veins.

“Possibly client lists, too. Who hires Oblivion’s services, what they pay, what they request.” Reaper’s voice took on a harder edge. “I brought specialized decryption equipment from my previous safehouse. It’s running algorithms now, but it will take time.”

I was already pushing back my chair, strength surging through me at this news. “We need to see what you’ve set up. Where are they?”

“Hold on.” Reaper raised his hand. “The decryption process is delicate. Tripwires embedded in the security could wipe everything if we push too hard or fast.”

“I understand caution, but this could be everything we need,” I argued, already moving toward the doorway. “ We could find Xavier’s location, maybe even how to reverse his conditioning.”

I was out of my chair and moving before I consciously decided to do so, adrenaline burning away the lingering weakness in my muscles.

Reaper shifted, blocking the doorway with his body as I tried to pass. I attempted to sidestep him, but he mirrored my movement with frustrating precision.

“Move,” I said, attempting to sound authoritative despite having to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“No.” His response was simple but firm. “You’re still recovering.”

“I’ve rested enough.” I made another attempt to get past him, feinting right before darting left.

This time, his arm shot out, palm flat against the doorframe, creating an impassable barrier without actually touching me.

The heat from his body radiated across the small space between us, and for a moment, we were frozen in place, his eyes locked with mine, determination against determination.

I tried once more to duck under his arm, and suddenly his free hand caught my wrist—not roughly, but with immovable certainty. The touch sent electricity racing through me, his fingers circling my trembling wrist.

“Your pulse is elevated. Pupils dilated. Tremors increasing.” The intensity in his gaze belied his clinical assessment. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“That’s not from exhaustion,” I said before I could stop myself .

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, followed by a flash of heat that made my breath catch. The fingers around my wrist tightened fractionally, his thumb finding my pulse point and resting there.

“Explain,” he demanded, his voice dropping lower.

Instead of answering, I rose on my toes and pressed my mouth to his.

The kiss started as a challenge but transformed instantly into something else—hunger, need, the electric current that had been building between us since I woke in his arms. His hand released my wrist to cup my face, fingers threading into my hair as he pressed me back against the wall.

The solid weight of his body pinned me there, his warmth seeping through my clothes.

His other hand found my waist, grip firm but careful, as if I might shatter under too much pressure.

I gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees go weak.

I clutched at his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath my fingertips, pulling him closer despite the voice in my head reminding me of all the reasons this was complicated.

His scent surrounded me—something warm and sharp and dangerous—as his lips trailed from my mouth to my jaw, then down my throat.

A sound escaped me, something between a sigh and a moan, as his teeth grazed my pulse point.

My heartbeat hammered against his mouth, my body arching instinctively into his .

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as uneven as mine, pupils blown wide with desire. A tremor ran through me that had nothing to do with Brock’s compounds.

“Your body needs rest,” he said, voice rough. “Your brain is still healing.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you just kiss me senseless to prove I’m not recovered enough to work?”

“No.” His thumb traced my lower lip, leaving fire in its wake. “But your reaction proves my point.”

“I thought you were done taking orders from Brock. Why are you suddenly channeling him?”

His expression shifted from firm to genuinely surprised. “Did you just compare me to Brock?”

The absurdity hit me, and I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “Maybe that was a low blow.”

“Lowest possible,” he confirmed, but there was something different in his eyes—a warmth that wasn’t there days ago. “He lacks my concern for your well-being.”

I blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Did you just… make a joke?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Apparently.”

“Well, that’s terrifying,” I said, but I was smiling now. “Next thing you know, you’ll develop a personality.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I laughed, then tried to use the moment to duck under his arm. He didn’t fall for it, his hand catching mine again, lacing our fingers together.

“Fine.” I sighed, switching tactics. “How about a compromise? You show me what you’ve set up, explain the process, and I promise not to touch anything without your approval?”

He gave me a deeply skeptical look.

“Half an hour,” I bargained. “Just let me see what we’re working with.”

“Your hands are still shaking,” he pointed out, his thumb running over my knuckles. “And the compound is still in your system. Your brain needs recovery time before processing complex information.” The clinical assessment was delivered with surprising gentleness.

“This matters more than my comfort,” I insisted. “Xavier is still out there, conditioned, being used as their weapon. Every day we wait.”

“Is a day your brain heals enough to actually help him,” Reaper finished firmly. “In this condition, you’ll miss critical details, make connections that aren’t there, overlook ones that are.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, for someone who barely speaks, you’re surprisingly annoying when you want to be.”

“A hidden talent,” he said dryly.

“Here’s the deal,” I tried again, attempting to sound reasonable despite my frustration. “I’ll rest for one more hour, then we start working together on those drives. Four eyes are better than two, especially when one pair belongs to an investigative journalist.”

“Two hours,” he countered. “And you take a real shower first. Clear your head.”

“One hour,” I countered firmly. “And yes, I’ll shower. ”

“Ninety minutes,” he said, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “And I’ll show you the decryption setup before you rest.”

I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Fine. Ninety minutes.”

“And regular breaks,” he added. “No working until you collapse.”

“You”, I pointed my finger at his chest, “are insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

I tried to maintain my glare, but it was difficult when a part of me was thrilled to see this new side of him. Yesterday, he would have issued orders. Today, his protectiveness carried something else—an almost playful stubbornness that felt refreshingly human.

“Ninety minutes starts after you show me the setup,” I clarified, unwilling to give up completely.

“And Maeve?” he called after me as I turned toward the door.

I paused, turning back.

“Those drives aren’t going anywhere.” His expression softened slightly. “Neither am I.”

I couldn’t help the warmth that spread through me at those simple words. “I’ll hold you to that.”