Page 5 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

With a shaky hand, I pointed my knife in his direction, lifting it a little higher, even though it seemed so unimportant, so tiny, in comparison to the man who stood before me.

“Don’t.” A single word, filled with absolute authority.

The space between us vanished to nothing. Two feet of empty air became charged with menace. He wasn’t touching me, yet his presence alone constricted my breathing like a physical weight on my chest.

“What did you do to me?” His voice dropped lower, colder. “What triggered my hesitation? My operational failure?”

Operational failure . The term pierced through my fear, igniting a spark of understanding.

The pieces clicked into place. As I suspected, this wasn’t just an assassin—he was a programmed weapon.

A man unmade and rebuilt. Everything I theorized about Xavier confirmed in two cold words.

I opened my mouth to speak, but once again, found myself at a loss for words.

His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Explain.”

I could hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I needed time. I needed answers. I needed to survive.

“I didn’t do anything to you.” I forced strength into my voice. “You did it yourself. Whatever they programmed you to be, the real you is still in there somewhere. ”

His expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes—like ice cracking silently beneath the surface of a frozen lake. I just had to…reach him.

“Did you drug me?” Reaper leaned closer, his voice dangerously soft.

I blinked. “What?”

“In the garage.” His eyes drilled into mine, searching for deception. “Some kind of chemical agent? Slow-release toxin?”

Despite everything, a surprised laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “With what? My journalism degree?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw—a tiny imperfection in his perfect control. The slight motion fascinated me. Proof that a human still existed beneath the programming.

“Something caused operational failure. The parameters were clear.”

I pressed myself harder against the wall, mind racing. Outside, I heard the faint sound of car doors closing. The backup team my source warned about. Minutes, maybe seconds, before they reached my room.

“You hesitated because I asked your name.” I kept my voice steady, watching his reaction. “That’s not chemicals. That’s your mind fighting whatever they did to you.”

His fist moved with blinding speed. One moment it was at his side, the next it was buried in the wall beside my head.

Plaster dust rained down onto my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the control of his strike.

I flinched as the wall crumbled beside me, but somehow, I kept my composure. I didn’t budge .

“They,” he repeated, the word emerging like something toxic. His voice dropped to something dangerous, barely audible. “There is no ‘they.’”

I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t flinch. My body had gone beyond fear into some strange, calm clarity.

His eyes flickered—confusion, pain, anger rippling across their surface like lightning over dark water. Then nothing, like it all shuttered again. His fist remained embedded in the wall, effectively caging me in place.

“I exist to complete missions,” he stated, each word mechanical. “I am a weapon.”

The words sounded rehearsed, programmed—but beneath them, I heard the faintest tremor. A note of uncertainty that didn’t belong in his perfect delivery.

“Everyone has a name,” I said softly. “Even weapons.”

His jaw clenched with such force that I could hear his teeth grinding. The tendons in his neck stood out like steel cables. For a terrifying moment, I was certain he’d kill me—crush my throat or snap my neck with the same efficiency he’d used to destroy the wall.

Instead, he slammed his fist into the wall again, harder this time. More plaster crumbled. The entire wall shook.

“Stop. Talking.” Each word emerged through gritted teeth.

But I could see it now—the war happening behind his eyes. The perfect operative fracturing from within.

His breathing changed—a barely perceptible shift, but I caught it. Two measured inhales where before there had been none. Control reasserting itself over whatever storm I’d unleashed .

“Do it again.” His voice dropped to something dangerous and soft.

I blinked. “What?”

“Make me falter.” He leaned closer, his face inches from mine. “Prove what you’re implying.”

The command hung between us, sharp as a blade. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The memory of his pain when I’d asked his name in the garage—that flash of agony crossing his features, the blood trickling from his nose—made me pause. I wanted to help him, not cause more pain.

“Well?” Impatience sharpened his tone.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered. The rest of the world slowed around us—even the danger that I knew was undoubtedly looming over us. He went completely still. Even his breathing stopped for a beat.

“You’re concerned about hurting me.” His voice was flat, disbelieving. “I’ve been sent to kill you, and you’re worried about causing me pain?”

When he put it that way, it did sound absurd. Still, I couldn’t deny the truth in it.

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed, searching my face. “You’re manipulating me.”

“No.” I shook my head slightly. “Whatever they did to you—whoever programmed you—the process of breaking through it hurts you physically. I saw it happen. I don’t want it to happen again. I want to help you…but not like that.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Just ask me my name again. ”

“It’s not that simple.” I swallowed. “Memory recovery isn’t like flipping a switch. It’s not reliable or predictable.”

His hand shot out, gripping my throat. Not enough to cut off my air, just enough to remind me of my vulnerability, of who was in control.

“Then find something that will work,” he growled. “Now.”

My pulse hammered against his palm. What could I ask that might crack through his programming? Something unexpected. Something he wouldn’t have prepared defenses against.

“What’s your favorite food?” I asked.

His expression shifted to confusion. “What?”

“Do you prefer coffee or tea?” I continued.

His grip tightened fractionally. “Stop wasting time.”

“Have you ever been to the beach? Can you swim?” I pressed on, watching his face for any reaction.

“Last warning,” he said through his teeth, eyes darkening with threat.

I was running out of time and options. My mind raced to the most disturbing information I’d uncovered during my investigation—a heavily redacted document that mentioned a “loyalty verification protocol” for new operatives. The final test that proved the conditioning had taken hold.

My stomach turned at the thought, but I had to try.

“Have you ever killed a child?”

The change was instant and violent. His hand dropped from my throat as if burned. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, then dilated so rapidly I could actually see it happen. His mouth opened as if to say “no,” but no sound emerged.

A thin trickle of blood appeared beneath his nose, followed by a second. His breathing shortened to rapid, shallow gasps.

My heart constricted painfully in my chest. I hadn’t just found a crack in his programming—I’d stumbled onto the cornerstone of his conditioning.

According to my source, the final test for newly programmed operatives was the execution of a child—the ultimate proof that their humanity had been successfully stripped away, that they would follow any order without question.

The document had called it “the point of no return.”

Until this point, I had only read about these prisoners who had been snatched away from the prisons and had all of their personality stripped away from them. To see one of them in front of me, cracking like this…that was more than I ever expected to find.

I watched in horror as he staggered back a step, one hand pressed against his temple. His eyes unfocused, seeing something far beyond the peeling wallpaper of my motel room.

“Eight years old,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Brown hair. Blue backpack.”

His eyes snapped back to mine, wide with something I never expected to see there—raw, undiluted horror.

For one heartbeat, I saw a man, not a weapon.

A soul confronting the unforgivable. Then, like a circuit breaker tripping, his expression went completely blank.

The blood from his nose dripped onto the carpet—one drop, then another.

He blinked rapidly, like someone waking from a nightmare. He raised his hand to his face, swiping at the crimson streak beneath his nose. He stared at the blood on his fingers with detached curiosity, as if it belonged to someone else.

“What happened?” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

I swallowed hard, the taste of fear metallic in my mouth.

I could tell him what he’d said—about the child with brown hair and the blue backpack.

I could push harder on this crack in his armor.

But something in his lost expression made me hesitate.

This wasn’t the moment. Not yet. I needed his help, not to break him entirely.

“You blacked out for a second,” I said instead, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart.

I watched as he battled whatever was happening in his head. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, but the momentary disorientation in them told me everything.

He recovered with terrifying speed, straightening to his full height. The rage vanished, replaced by something worse—a cold, calculated shift in his approach.

He stepped forward, erasing what little space remained between us. I pressed harder against the wall, but there was nowhere left to go. He planted one hand beside my head, and leaned in.

His voice dropped an octave, transforming from threatening to something velvet, edged that slid down my spine like ice water. “Who are you, Maeve Durham?”