Page 50 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Reaper’s expression hardened, but his eyes held something desperate, almost pleading. “The choice is simple. Stay and die, or leave and live.”

“The choice is mine,” I fired back, fury reigniting. This was something he seemed to forget again and again.

“This isn’t a debate,” he said, cold and final.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed, choking on the words. “Because everything I thought we built was apparently just in my head, just another mission parameter for you to manage. Don’t worry, you don’t have to deal with this complication anymore.”

His continued silence was answer enough, each second of it a knife twisting deeper.

“Xavier is my brother,” I said, my voice breaking despite my best efforts. “And if you think I’m going to sit safely in Istanbul while you...”

Specter’s phone rang sharply, cutting through the emotional standoff like a knife. We both froze, the argument suspended mid-air as Specter checked the screen.

The sharp electronic ring sliced through my words. My throat closed around the rest of my sentence, the argument dying between us. I was still trembling with adrenaline, chest heaving slightly.

Specter glanced at his phone screen, straightening instantly like a soldier called to attention.

“Yes,” he answered, voice clipped .

Reaper’s attention pivoted instantly, his eyes locking onto Specter with laser focus. Just like that, I might as well have disappeared from the room. The emotional battlefield we stood on seconds ago vanished, replaced by tactical assessment. His jaw tightened, all his focus directed away from me.

My heart pounded painfully against my ribs, the emotional whiplash disorienting. The room felt suspended in a strange limbo—the argument unresolved, my hands still half-raised in gesticulation.

“Understood,” Specter said, his voice lowered. “Timeline?”

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the safehouse. The betrayal had a physical weight, pressing against my chest until each breath felt like an effort.

Reaper and Specter exchanged loaded glances across the room, an entire conversation happening without words.

I recognized the silent communication between men who’d operated in shadows long enough to read each other’s micro-expressions.

It was a language I didn’t speak, taking place on purpose, a reminder of how far outside their world I was.

Something shifted in Specter’s face—so subtle I almost missed it. A slight tightening around his eyes, the barest flaring of his nostrils. Controlled alarm. Reaper caught it too, his posture straightening infinitesimally, shoulders squaring as though bracing for impact .

“Confirmed. Out.” Specter ended the call, lowering the phone slowly.

The room held its breath. Three heartbeats passed in absolute silence, the air thick with anticipation. Whatever news was coming would render our personal drama irrelevant, and we all knew it.

Specter slid the phone onto the table, his face unreadable. “You can’t leave Brazil anyway, Maeve. Not now.”

I bit back a bitter laugh. Of course. The universe had perfect timing.

“Brock’s issued detain-on-sight orders at every exit point from the country,” Specter continued. “Airports, land borders, even private marinas. He’s using your photo, passport details, and three fake identities he suspects you might use.”

The grim satisfaction that flared through me felt hollow, petty. Being right didn’t make the sting of Reaper’s betrayal hurt any less.

“So you don’t have to worry about shipping me off to Istanbul after all,” I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “Problem solved.”

Reaper’s jaw tightened. He didn’t meet my eyes. “What exactly did your contact say?”

“That’s the thing,” Specter said, his fingers stilling against the table as though what he was about to say required complete attention. “Brock isn’t using official channels. He activated his personal authorization codes to flag her. Not Oblivion protocols. ”

Reaper frowned, a predatory stillness coming over him. “Explain.”

“The Director is dissatisfied with his performance since the café extraction. Apparently, Brock promised immediate results with the Maeve acquisition.” Specter looked at me. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I muttered. “Always nice to be reduced to an ‘acquisition.’”

Specter continued, “Brock’s running a ghost op. The recovery mission for you two isn’t sanctioned by Oblivion central command.”

“He’s gone rogue,” Reaper said, the words falling between us like stones.

Specter nodded. “He’s assembled a small team—five, maybe six operatives personally loyal to him. They’re working outside official parameters.”

A chill ran through me. “So Oblivion doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

“The Director knows something,” Specter said. “But Brock’s intentionally limiting the information flow. My source says he’s promising to ‘fix his mistakes’ by bringing you both in personally.”

Rain began pattering against the windows, the rhythm accelerating like a quickening pulse.

“This changes things,” Reaper said finally, something shifting in his expression—calculation replacing coldness. He turned to the table where maps and tactical gear lay scattered. “If Brock’s operating without full organizational backing, we have an advantage. ”

“How exactly is this an advantage?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.

“We can use the rift,” Specter explained. “Brock’s vulnerable. Exposed. The Director’s already questioning his judgment and not providing backup or resources. He’s desperate—and desperate men make mistakes.”

“And if Brock fails again,” Reaper continued, “Oblivion might cut him loose.”

I watched them slip into tactical mode, the earlier emotional confrontation seemingly forgotten as they examined maps and discussed extraction points. The professional efficiency was almost beautiful, if it weren’t for the knife still lodged in my chest from moments before.

“We need to...” Reaper started, but Specter’s phone buzzed again, cutting him off.

A strange stillness fell over us. Second call in minutes. Not good.

Specter glanced at the screen, his eyes widening slightly. As he read the message, something remarkable happened—a slow smile spread across his face, transforming his typically guarded expression. It was the face of someone who’d just been handed a winning hand in a high-stakes game.

“What is it?” Reaper asked, tension vibrating in his voice.

Specter looked up, that smile still playing at his lips. “My contact says they can help us. They’ve got Brock’s location.”

Reaper’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, his weight redistributing as if preparing to move. “What contact?” His voice carried an edge of dangerous skepticism .

I found myself momentarily pulled from my emotional turmoil, curiosity cutting through the hurt. “Who is your contact?”

Outside, the rain intensified, droplets hammering against the windows in an escalating rhythm. The sound filled the momentary silence as Specter contemplated his answer.

His smile changed then, becoming something almost predatory—knowing and dangerous. It was the expression of someone holding a trump card and waiting for the right moment to play it.

“Reaper and I aren’t the only ones who want out,” he said, each word measured. “Oblivion’s house of cards is starting to collapse.”