Page 49 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

I woke slowly, stretching in the warm cocoon of tangled sheets, my body deliciously sore in all the right places.

Light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting a drab, gray pallor that announced rain, but I didn’t care.

Everything ached in that perfect way that spoke of passion and abandon.

My muscles felt both liquid and bruised, a physical reminder of last night that made me smile into the pillow.

His scent was everywhere—on the sheets, on my skin, in my hair. I reached across to his side of the bed without opening my eyes, wanting to feel his warmth, maybe trace my fingers across the scars I’d kissed last night.

My hand met cold sheets.

My eyes snapped open. The emptiness beside me felt wrong, jarring me fully awake. The indent of his head remained on the pillow, but he was gone.

Last night flooded back in vivid detail. The argument when he discovered who he was. The way his eyes had gone cold, distant, trying to push me away with cruel words about his past. “I’m not someone you want to know, Maeve. ”

And then how I’d crossed the room, taken his face between my hands and shut his nonsense with a kiss.

What followed wasn’t gentle. It was desperate and rough, another type of argument.

But what stayed with me most wasn’t the way he’d taken me against the wall before we even made it to bed.

It was the moment when his eyes met mine, all his guards down, something raw and unguarded breaking through.

Everything in me opened up, or more accurately, shattered.

I’d fallen asleep with words prepared, rehearsed in my head as his breathing had steadied beside me. Simple words. Dangerous words. I care about you. Whatever you were before doesn’t matter. I want this—us—whatever it is.

But now his scent on my skin felt like a taunt rather than a comfort.

A low voice drifted from somewhere in the apartment. His voice. Relief washed through me—he hadn’t left completely. Maybe he was just making coffee or—

“—need extraction coordinates now.” His tone was flat, professional. Clinical. Nothing like the man who’d whispered my name against my throat hours ago.

“Location secure,” he continued, voice dropping lower. “She’s still asleep.”

Ice slid down my spine. She must be me. And that voice—it was the voice of Reaper, not Ronan—the assassin, not the man.

I slid from the bed, my body suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. I found my clothes scattered across the floor, evidence of our frenzy. Each item I put on felt like armor I was building against what was coming.

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled on my jeans. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he was arranging something to keep us both safe.

But I knew better. The resignation in his voice told me everything. He’d made a decision, and it didn’t include me.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. Somewhere in this safehouse was a man I’d come to care for, possibly even—no, I wouldn’t finish that thought.

The scene that greeted me stopped me cold.

Specter sat at the table, hunched over my closed laptop with the hard drives piled beside it, fingers drumming irritably against its surface.

Reaper stood with his back to me, methodically assembling a matte black handgun.

Three more weapons lay disassembled nearby, the tableau unmistakably tactical.

Gone was any trace of domesticity; this was a war room.

Specter noticed me first, straightening slightly. “Nothing beyond Prima files,” he muttered to Reaper. “Not a goddamn thing about Secunda generation.”

Reaper turned, his eyes meeting mine. Nothing in his gaze hinted at the man who’d held me last night, who’d whispered against my skin as if I were something precious. This was Reaper looking at me—evaluating, calculating.

“You’re up.” Two words, delivered without inflection.

I attempted a casual tone, though my heart thundered against my ribs. “What’s going on? ”

Reaper set the reassembled pistol down, his movements economical. “Extraction plans. You’re leaving Brazil today.”

The words hit like a physical blow. “What?”

“Ten hours to Istanbul,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “New identity has already been processed. Specter’s contacts will handle your placement.”

Each detail landed like another betrayal.

Istanbul. New identity. Placement. Not our placement.

Your placement. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers, trying to process his words.

Trying not to tell him to go to hell. We had this conversation once before—when I’d told him he doesn’t get to make all the decisions. That we were partners. Apparently not.

“Your brother is still our priority,” Reaper added, voice detached. “But you’re a liability in the field now. Brock wants you specifically. Your presence jeopardizes operational security.”

My stomach dropped, a physical plummet that left me hollow. Something in my chest seemed to cave inward, making each breath an effort. My eyes met his again. I was searching for something—anything—to show me that the man who had held me was still there. Nothing.

“You’ll be given sufficient resources,” Specter interjected, not meeting my eyes. “Safe accommodation, new documentation. When this is over...”

“When what is over?” I cut in, my voice barely audible to my own ears .

Reaper’s face remained impassive. “I’ll extract your brother. Neutralize Brock. Dismantle as much of Oblivion’s structure as possible.”

I. Not we.

Last night, in the darkness, I’d rehearsed an entirely different scene. Those prepared confessions turned to ash in my mouth. I still wanted to say them out loud, but I couldn’t. Not that it mattered, anyway. He wouldn’t hear them. Not when he was like this.

“This was always the endgame,” Reaper said, voice flat. “Your safety secured. Your brother recovered. Mission parameters don’t change because of…” He paused, searching for the clinical term. “Complications.”

Complications. Was that what last night was? A complication?

Something hot and sharp ignited beneath my shock, a flicker of anger striking like a match in darkness. Then, it all hit me at once. This was fucking bullshit. I forced a laugh. It came out ragged, sounding more like someone just punched me in the stomach.

“Complications,” I repeated. The word sat bitter on my tongue. “Is that what we’re calling me? A complication?”

Reaper’s face remained perfectly composed, almost too perfect, like a mask he’d carefully constructed. “What happened between us changes nothing about the operational realities.”

“The operational...” I cut myself off, my voice threatening to break. I took a breath, summoning control. I couldn’t let myself break. Not like this. Not right now. “Don’t you dare reduce us to some tactical footnote.”

Specter shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in the edge of the table.

“You don’t get to pack me away somewhere safe while you handle everything. Xavier is my brother,” I said, my voice steadier now as anger built beneath my shock.

“And Brock wants you specifically,” Reaper countered, his voice clipped. “Your presence endangers the mission.”

“ My mission,” I snapped back. “This was my mission before you were even free of your conditioning. Before you even knew I existed and would become your target! I was the one who dragged you out of it! I was the one who risked my goddamn life to save you! I was the one who didn’t let you give up.”

Something flickered across Reaper’s face—the first crack in his perfect composure. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the gun he’d assembled, knuckles whitening before he forced them to relax.

“You’re treating me like I’m some liability to be managed,” I continued, my voice rising despite my efforts to control it. “What happened to us being partners? What happened to ‘ we’ll find Xavier’?”

Specter rose, moving to the window to scan the perimeter. I knew he was giving us space, but his movement only emphasized how exposed we all were—how the external threats continued regardless of this internal war between us.

“Ensuring your safety is the priority,” Reaper said, each word measured. But something in his voice wavered, almost imperceptibly. He was trying to stick to the narrative he had built inside his head while I was asleep. “That was always the objective.”

“Was it?” I stepped closer, close enough for him to touch me to move past. “Because last night, when you held me, when you whispered my name like a prayer—that didn’t feel like you were planning to ship me off to Istanbul.”

Reaper’s jaw tightened, a muscle there jumping beneath taut skin. His eyes—those eyes that had warmed with something like tenderness hours before—flickered away from mine, unable to hold contact.

“So that’s it?” I demanded, forcing myself into his sight line. “You find out about Sofia and decide I’m just the same? That I’ll break just like she did?”

His eyes flared at the name, something dark and wounded surfacing like blood in water before he buried it again.

“I don’t remember Sofia,” he said, voice low. He shifted his weight backward, the slightest retreat. “But if sending you away means you’ll still be alive and breathing after all this is done—not hanging from a rope—I can live with your hatred.”

The raw pain in his voice stopped me cold. This wasn’t about dismissing what happened between us. It was about fear—bone-deep fear that history would repeat itself.

“I’m not her,” I said, softly now. “And you’re not who you were then.”

“You don’t know that,” he countered. “Neither do I.”

Specter shifted again by the window, clearly uncomfortable witnessing this emotional battlefield. “Perimeter’s still clear,” he muttered, though neither of us asked. He tensed in his position, quickly returning his gaze to the view outside.