Page 48 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

The sensation of her hand guiding me demolished my last thread of resistance.

I thrust into her with a single savage drive, her body arching as I filled her completely.

The choked gasp that tore from her throat flooded my mouth as I devoured her, my hands pinning her wrists above her head so hard I could feel her pulse hammering against my palms. Each thrust was deeper than the last—her body yielding then fighting back, her hips rising to meet every punishing stroke.

“Look at me,” she demanded, and I obeyed, finding her eyes locked on mine, pupils blown with lust. Each thrust drove me closer to her, until I was close to losing myself entirely—whether I wanted it or not. “Stay with me. Here. Now. Show me who you really are.”

The intensity of her gaze stripped me bare—more naked than our sweat-slicked bodies, more demanding than the carnal pleasure building where we were joined. She saw me —not Reaper, not Ronan Graves—but the raw, unfiltered man emerging from the ashes of my past.

“Harder,” she whispered, nails digging into my shoulders. “I need to feel you tomorrow.”

I released her wrists to grip her hips, angling her body to drive deeper. I pulled almost completely out before slamming back in, the wet sound of our bodies colliding filling the room. She cried out, arching her back off the bed.

“Touch yourself,” I commanded, voice rough with need. “I want to watch you come while I’m inside you.”

Her fingers slid between us, circling herself as I pounded into her.

The sight of her touching herself while I fucked her nearly pushed me over the edge.

Her shaky fingers circled her clit in frantic movements as I rammed myself into her, refusing to stop.

I needed her more than I needed air—than I needed anything in this world.

If there was one right choice I had made in my life, it was this—saving her.

“I see you,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her body tightened around me. “I fucking see you.”

The words unraveled me completely. I flipped her over roughly, pulling her hips up, driving into her from behind with punishing force. Her face pressed into the pillow, muffling her scream as I gripped her hair, pulling her head back.

“Is this what you wanted?” I growled against her ear, feeling her clench around me. “To be fucked like this? To break me open?”

“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back against every thrust. “God, yes.”

I reached around to touch her, feeling how swollen and sensitive she’d become. “Come for me,” I demanded, my rhythm becoming erratic as my own release approached. “I need to feel you come around me.”

Her entire body convulsed, inner muscles clamping down on me like a vice as she came with a strangled cry.

The sight of her—completely surrendered to pleasure, body shaking uncontrollably—triggered my own release.

I drove into her one final time, groaning her name as I came deep inside her, filling her completely.

Afterward, we collapsed on sweat-soaked sheets, her breathing gradually steadying as she curled against me. Her head rested on my chest, one leg thrown possessively across mine, her hand splayed over my heart like she was claiming ownership .

I stared at the ceiling, my body satisfied but my mind resolute. What I felt for her wasn’t just real; it was devastating in its clarity. I loved her. And because I loved her, I could not drag her further into my nightmare.

As her breathing deepened into sleep, her features softened, the fierce warrior momentarily vulnerable. I stroked her hair, memorizing every detail—the weight of her against me, the scent of our passion lingering on her skin, the slight parting of her lips as she dreamed.

This was goodbye. Not the reconciliation she believed, but my farewell.

I thought of Sofia, the woman I couldn’t remember but whose blood stained my conscience. The woman who found death preferable to life with me. The weight of that knowledge settled like a stone in my chest—not just guilt, but certainty. Some men don’t get redemption. Some sins can’t be washed clean.

I’d killed for Oblivion. I’d killed before Oblivion. And I’d kill again before this ended.

Carefully, I extracted my arm from beneath Maeve’s head, replacing it with a pillow. She murmured something unintelligible but didn’t wake, her hand searching briefly before settling against the sheet.

I slipped from the bed like a ghost. Maeve’s breathing remained deep and even. She lay tangled in sheets that still carried the scent of sex and sweat. Her hair fanned across the pillow, one arm outstretched toward the space I had occupied moments ago .

I dressed methodically. Shirt. Pants. Boots. Each piece of clothing felt like armor being replaced, reestablishing the distance I needed. My weapons came next—knife at ankle, pistol at lower back, garrote wire in pocket. The weight of each was familiar, comforting in its deadly purpose.

Maeve shifted in sleep, murmuring something unintelligible once more. The fading light caught the curve of her shoulder, the delicate line of her throat.

I froze, watching her. The sight of her pulled at something in my chest—an unfamiliar ache. This was what loving looked like for a man like me. Walking away before I destroyed what mattered most.

Her words from earlier echoed: “You don’t get to hide behind Ronan Graves.”

Easy for her to say. She wasn’t there when I broke a shopkeeper’s fingers one by one while his teenage son watched. When I pushed that terrified witness off a rooftop. She didn’t understand that my wife chose death over me.

I didn’t remember any of it, but the knowledge of what I did sat like poison in my veins. Men like me didn’t get happy endings. We didn’t deserve them.

I turned away from the bed. From Maeve. From the possibility of something I had no right to claim.

For her to live, for her to find her brother and build something resembling a normal life, she needed to be far from me and the violence that followed in my wake.

When this ended—when Brock and the Director and everyone who built Oblivion lay dead—I’d disappear for good.

But first, I needed to ensure her safety .

My thumb hovered over Specter’s contact. The one person who might understand what I was about to do. He had broken his own conditioning, after all. Found some way to live with the fragments of who he was.

I pressed call, keeping my voice to a controlled murmur when he answered.

“I need your help.”