Page 51 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

Rain tapped against the tiny street-level windows, casting irregular patterns across the floor of our basement hideout. A slow drip from the ceiling landed like a metronome into a metal pot Specter had positioned earlier, the ping-ping-ping marking time like a countdown.

I rolled my shoulders against the stiffness settling in. This windowless basement smelled of mildew and the chemical tang of industrial cleaners. The ceiling hung so low that Ronan and Specter had to duck when they crossed the room.

My makeshift workstation wobbled when I typed, the uneven metal table steadied with a folded scrap of paper under one leg.

In the gloomy half-light, torn pages from a notebook lay arranged in a pattern only I understood—names, dates, locations—a physical manifestation of the connections forming in my mind.

Xavier’s name appeared throughout my notes—sometimes as “X,” sometimes as “Blackout”—depending on which version of my brother I was tracking. The hard drives we stole from Brock’s facility formed a daisy chain of cables across the table, each containing pieces of Oblivion’s secrets.

I bit my lower lip, pushing away a spike of frustration. Not thinking about Ronan storming out an hour ago. Not remembering the rage in his eyes when I discovered his plan to ship me off to Istanbul while he hunted my brother alone.

Focus, Maeve. The work is what matters.

Xavier had taught me to always be logical and put my feelings aside while working. He mentioned it before the first job interview I had landed, and later on, when I landed my dream job.

“It’s the key to seeing things for what they are,” he pointed out. And perhaps he wasn’t wrong at all. I blinked once, twice, thrice, trying to ignore the burn behind my eyes. I’d deal with that later. For now, I needed to focus on my brother.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, chasing another thread of information. The lingering headache pulsed behind my eyes, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I’d rather face the aftereffects of Brock’s compounds than this fresh betrayal.

“Subject classification protocols,” I muttered louder, forcibly redirecting my thoughts. “Beta authorization sequence.”

Across the room, metal clicked against metal as Specter cleaned and reassembled a handgun. He’d positioned himself by the door, several weapons laid out in order before him. His movements were efficient, mechanical—the man was a weapon being maintained alongside the others .

He caught my eye momentarily before returning to his task. His expression revealed nothing, but his presence was a complicated comfort—a guardian I never asked for, but apparently needed.

I attacked the keyboard with renewed intensity. Files from the stolen hard drives filled my screen—redacted documents, facility blueprints, personnel records. Somewhere in this digital labyrinth was the truth about Xavier, about Ronan, about Specter, and all of Oblivion’s puppets.

“Your system looks like a conspiracy theorist’s bedroom wall.”

Specter’s voice startled me. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, examining my scattered notes.

“It works for me,” I replied, not looking up. “Pattern recognition is easier when I can physically arrange the information before starting to write.”

He stepped closer, his shadow falling across my workspace. “You’ve connected Oblivion to multiple black sites across South America.”

“Yes, but it’s only preliminary suppositions.

” I tapped a page with three locations circled in red.

“Their fingerprints are all over these facilities. Digital trails lead back to shell companies with the same patterns. That was information I had put together before coming to Brazil. But you know all this, because you helped me put it together.”

The rain intensified outside, a rapid-fire assault against the building. The tiny basement windows rattled in their frames, and the dripping from the ceiling accelerated.

“What’s your publication strategy?” he asked suddenly .

The question hit like cold water. I’d been so focused on survival that I hadn’t fully confronted what comes after finding Xavier. But the journalist in me—the part that had been documenting everything—had been planning all along.

“I have a network of trusted contacts at three international papers.” My fingers drummed against the table. “Dead man’s switch protocols in place. If I don’t check in regularly, encrypted packets go to all three simultaneously.”

“And you’ve scrubbed the data of anything that could compromise your sources?”

“First rule of investigative journalism.” I gestured to a separate folder on my screen. “I’ve been sanitizing information since before we met. Redacting certain details, creating information buffers between sources.”

Specter nodded, the barest hint of approval in his expression.

“You’ve been thorough.”

“Every contact verified, every channel secured.” A touch of pride entered my voice despite my exhaustion.

“And you understand what this means for you afterward?” His tone sharpened. “No normal life. Not for years, maybe ever.”

My hands stilled on the keyboard. The question landed with a weight I couldn’t deflect.

For a moment, the basement fell silent except for the rain and that persistent drip into the metal pot.

I’d thought about it, here and there. I knew how things worked, only I so desperately hoped Ronan would be by my side once it did happen .

“I know what happens to people who expose organizations like Oblivion.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. “New identity. New location. Constant vigilance.”

“And you’re prepared for that?”

I met his eyes directly. “I crossed that line the moment I started looking for Xavier.” My voice hardened. “Some truths demand sacrifices.”

Something flickered behind Specter’s eyes—recognition, perhaps, or respect.

“What about Reaper?” he asked more quietly.

The question twisted like a blade between my ribs. My relationship with Ronan—whatever it was—felt too raw to examine, too complicated to define.

I swallowed hard, focusing on my screen. “That’s not relevant to my goals and mission.”

I turned back to my laptop, fingers resuming their dance across the keys with more force than necessary.

“Nothing’s more important than exposing what they’ve done. What they’re still doing.” The words firmed up as I spoke them. “If we don’t stop Oblivion, how many more Xaviers and Specters will they create?”

The silence stretched between us.

“He’s not trying to control you,” Specter said suddenly.

My fingers froze mid-keystroke. “Excuse me?”

“Reaper. When he planned to send you away.” Specter’s voice remained neutral, clinical. “It wasn’t about control.”

My shoulders tightened. “I don’t recall asking for your psychological assessment. ”

“I know more than you think.” He didn’t move closer, maintaining the distance of a man accustomed to calculating threat perimeters.

The basement suddenly felt airless. The walls pressed inward, the ceiling lower. My heart beat faster without my permission.

“I don’t need explanations for his actions,” I said, each word clipped. “His choices are clear enough.”

“Are they?” Specter crossed his arms. “Have you noticed how he watches you when you’re working? When you’re absorbed in something and don’t realize he’s looking?”

I shot him a skeptical glare. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a look I’ve never seen on him before. Not when he was Reaper.” He stopped himself. “It’s reverence. And terror.”

My throat tightened. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Specter remained utterly still, his stillness more unnerving than movement. “I know operatives like him. Like me. Reading micro-expressions is a survival skill. And what I see when he looks at you…” He shook his head. “It’s surprising.”

My pulse quickened traitorously. I remembered Ronan’s hands on my skin, the way his eyes tracked my movements, how he’d wake instantly if I stirred in the night. I wanted to believe all of that had meant something, but his words proved otherwise.

Don’t think about it right now. You can’t get distracted.

“You don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I muttered, but the conviction in my voice wavered .

Specter stepped closer, his movement deliberate. “Do you know what it means that he’s remembered his name? His past?”

I said nothing, but I found myself leaning forward slightly.

“The conditioning process doesn’t just erase memories—it rewires neural circuitry completely.” His voice took on a clinical tone. “New pathways form in the brain, connecting pain receptors to specific thoughts.”

I pressed my fingers into the table’s edge until my knuckles turned white, remembering the nosebleeds, the way Ronan would collapse when certain memories surfaced.

“Every time he resists his programming, it’s like fighting against his own nervous system.

” Specter’s eyes met mine. “Every time he chooses you, his brain is literally attacking itself. The data on recovery is virtually non-existent. No one’s successfully reversed this level of conditioning before. Not completely.”

“But he remembered his name,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded. “He remembered Brock’s betrayal.”

“Yes. Which is remarkable. And they may be the only memories he might be able to retrieve. Oblivion didn’t think about reverting his assets. They… We are to be changed forever or die.”

I pushed away from the table, needing to move. The small basement suffocated me as I paced between the table and the wall. “Why tell me this now? What’s your angle?”

Specter’s eyes followed my movements, calculating. “Because I need you functional for what’s coming. And right now, you’re compromised by misunderstanding his actions. ”

The image of Ronan carrying me through Brock’s facility flashed through my mind—his face contorted with pain, each step visibly fighting against his programming to keep me safe.