Page 47 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

My face settled deeper into impassivity, muscles relaxing into the familiar blankness of the assassin.

What I felt for her was real. That was the cruelest truth.

Not manufactured by conditioning or manipulation.

But real feelings from a monster would destroy her just as thoroughly as calculated violence.

Protection required distance.

Redemption required sacrifice.

It seemed my time alone was over because I heard a gentle shuffle behind me. Every muscle in my body remained tense. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her at first.

“What’s wrong?” she asked from behind me. Her coffee mug landed on the table with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the stillness between us. “Whatever it is… we’ll handle it together.”

Of course, she’d say that—because she didn’t know the truth about the kind of man I was.

“I found more information.” My voice emerged flat, stripped of inflection. It felt like slipping into an old suit—uncomfortable but familiar. “About Ronan Graves. About who I was. More than what you’d already seen.”

She moved closer, concern replacing hope. “Tell me.”

“I was a criminal.” I turned and maintained eye contact, watching for the moment recognition hit. “A thug. An enforcer. A fucking butcher. I broke bodies for money in cities across the eastern seaboard.”

Her expression shifted slightly, but not toward the disgust I expected.

“I manipulated witnesses into silence. I laundered money through shell companies. I extorted business owners for protection fees.” Each statement landed hard. “Several people died because of direct actions I took. Others killed themselves rather than face what I’d do to them.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t retreat. She didn’t look away.

And finally, I had an answer to the question she had asked about a few times now.

“I married a woman named Sofia for access to her father’s business connections.” The words scraped my throat. “She killed herself three weeks before Brock sold me to Oblivion.”

Maeve’s eyes widened at this. “The woman you called for.”

“Yes.”

She stepped back, her hand rising to her throat in an unconscious gesture of protection. The slight retreat sent a knife of pain through me, but it confirmed what I already knew: Monsters don’t deserve redemption.

“That’s…” She swallowed hard. “That’s a lot to process.”

“It’s who I was,” I said flatly. “Who I am.”

She shook her head, but uncertainty clouded her eyes now. “The conditioning...”

“They erased the narrative, not the capacity.” I stepped away from her, maintaining tactical distance. “The skills that make me effective now came from somewhere. The calculation. The ability to read weaknesses and exploit them.”

“Everyone has capacity for darkness,” she argued, but her voice wavered slightly. “What matters is the choices you make now.”

“You don’t understand.” My voice hardened. “The man who held you, who made love to you—he doesn’t exist. He’s a blank canvas painted with whatever seemed most convenient in the moment.”

Pain flashed across her face. “That’s not true.”

“It is. Any connection you think exists between us is built on false premises.” Another step back. “You don’t know who I am.”

“I’ve seen you make choices the Ronan Graves in those files would never make,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

“I’ll help you find Xavier. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I’ll kill Brock.” My jaw tightened. “Then I’ll disappear. Someone with my history doesn’t get the luxury of connection.”

She crossed her arms, studying me with narrowed eyes. “So that’s your solution? Push me away? For my own good?”

“I’m protecting you.”

“Bullshit.” The word cracked the air between us. She took a long step toward me, with an accusatory look in her eyes. “You’re protecting yourself.”

The accusation landed like a physical blow. “You think this is easy?”

“I think it’s convenient.” She stepped forward again, erasing more of the distance I created. “I think you found something that scares you, so you’re running. Taking the easy way out.”

“Easy?” My voice rose despite myself. “You think walking away from you is easy?”

“Easier than staying. Easier than facing what’s happening between us.” Another step closer. “Easier than believing you might be worthy of something good. ”

“You don’t understand what I’m capable of.” I could never hurt her. Not physically, at least. Not willingly. But I knew I had to put some distance between us—for her own good. I’d sooner die than let her end up like Sofia.

“I understand you could have killed me and didn’t.” Another step. “I understand you risked your life to save mine.” Another. “I understand you could have disappeared at any point, but you chose to stay.”

“Strategic decisions.”

“Bullshit!” The word cracked between us again. “Stop hiding behind your past. You want distance because you’re scared.”

“I destroyed everyone who got close to me,” I said, my voice dropping low. “I manipulated them. Used them. Broke them. Killed them!”

“That was Ronan Graves.” Her voice softened, but her eyes remained fierce. “You’ve been given something most people never get—a chance to choose who you become, regardless of who you were.”

“And if I become him again?” The question emerged before I could stop it.

She was silent for a long moment, studying my face. “Are you afraid you will? Or afraid you won’t?”

The question hit me like a physical blow. “What does that mean?”

“I think you’re more afraid of becoming someone worthy of love than returning to the monster you were.” She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of coffee on her breath. “Because if you’re worthy of love, you have something to lose.”

The observation cut through my defenses. My mouth opened, but no words emerged.

“You don’t get to hide behind Ronan Graves,” Maeve said, her voice trembling with intensity. “Whatever you did then—it’s done. What matters is what you do now. Who you choose to be now.”

We stood inches apart, both breathing heavily. The space between us vibrated with unsaid words and impossible choices. Her eyes burned into mine, refusing to let me retreat into the comfortable emptiness of the machine I was programmed to be.

I turned away, unable to bear the weight of her gaze. “You should go. Pack your things. We’ll find another.”

Her hand caught my arm, fingers digging into muscle. “No.” The word hit like a command, not a plea.

When I turned back, her face was inches from mine, jaw set with determination. “I’m not letting you do this.”

“You don’t understand what I...”

Her hand rose to my face, palm against my cheek. The gentle touch silenced me more effectively than any command. “I understand exactly what you’re doing.”

“Maeve.”

“I’m not Sofia,” she said, her thumb tracing my cheekbone. “I’m not some breakable thing you can destroy.”

The name—Sofia—jolted through me. “You have no idea what I did to her!”

“No, I don’t. And neither do you—not really.” Her eyes never left mine. “You have files and reports, but you don’t have memories. You don’t know why she made her choice.”

“The evidence...”

“Tells a story written by someone else.” Her other hand rose to cup my face. “I’m writing my own story. And I want you in it.”

Her words hit somewhere deep, cracking foundations I didn’t know existed. Something hot and tight built in my chest, threatening to break free.

I looked at her—really looked at her. The woman who was fighting for me when I couldn’t fight for myself. The woman who saw past the weapon to the man beneath. The woman I was about to push away forever.

If this was goodbye, let me have this one last memory to carry into the darkness.

Then her mouth crashed into mine, stealing whatever empty justification I was about to offer. The kiss carried all the fury of our argument—demanding, insistent, brooking no retreat. Her teeth caught my lower lip, the sharp edge of pain cutting through my defenses.

My body responded before my mind could intervene, hands finding her waist, pulling her hard against me. The kiss transformed into something hungrier, more desperate—as if we were both trying to consume each other before reason returned.

I slammed her against the wall, lifting her with one fluid motion, her legs wrapping tight around my waist. Our bodies collided with savage urgency—need obliterating caution, hunger drowning doubt.

She tore at my shirt, buttons flying across the floor as fabric ripped.

My hands shoved under her top, finding skin burning beneath my touch, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

“You don’t want this,” I said between brutal kisses, one last pathetic attempt at protection.

Her fingers twisted in my hair, yanking my head back to force eye contact. “Don’t you fucking tell me what I want.” She ground against my hardness, the friction making me throb painfully against my zipper. “I want you. All of you. Not just the sanitized parts you think are safe enough to share.”

Something broke inside me—the final barrier between control and surrender.

If this was all we’d ever have, I’d give her everything.

I carried her to the bed, our mouths never separating, clothes torn away with desperate, violent movements—her shirt ripped over her head, my pants shoved down and kicked aside.

Her nails raked down my back, leaving burning trails as she marked territory no one else had claimed.

When we were both naked, I hesitated one final second, poised at her entrance. “Maeve, if I lose control...”

She locked her legs around me, pulling me closer. “Then fucking lose it.” Her hand slid between our bodies, wrapping around me with a grip so tight it bordered on pain. “I’m not some delicate fucking flower. I won’t break.”