Page 53 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

I was barely aware of movement beside me until Specter’s hand touched my shoulder—tentative at first, then firmer as he helped me sit upright. The gesture was so unexpected that my sobbing intensified.

Specter’s arms encircled me awkwardly, as if comfort was a foreign language he was attempting for the first time.

I clung to him regardless, desperate for human contact after weeks of isolation and fear—aside from Ronan, of course.

Aside from the man who decided I wasn’t worth working with.

My tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt as I broke apart completely in the arms of this lethal stranger .

The sudden tension in Specter’s muscles alerted me first—a shift so subtle most wouldn’t notice it. His breathing changed, became more measured, controlled. The atmosphere in the basement shifted with it.

The rain surged against the windows, sheets of water hammering the glass like nature’s own percussion. Something changed in the air pressure—that subtle pop you feel when descending a mountain.

Time slowed as footsteps approached from behind—heavy, deliberate steps that I recognized before I fully processed their meaning. My body knew those footsteps, recognized their cadence on a level deeper than thought.

I remained frozen in Specter’s loosening embrace, my breath caught in my throat. The footsteps stopped, and I felt suddenly exposed, tear-streaked and vulnerable, with nowhere to hide.

I slowly turned my head.

His silhouette dominated the doorway, dark and imposing. Rainwater streamed from his coat in rivulets, forming a growing puddle at his feet. He stood utterly still, water continuing to drip from his clothing as his eyes registered my tear-streaked face.

Ronan.

He was back.

My heart slammed against my ribs—a chaotic mixture of relief, anger, and something dangerously close to need surging through me.

The betrayal from hours ago clashed with the undeniable pull I felt toward him.

I wanted to scream at him and collapse into his arms simultaneously, the contradictory impulses leaving me paralyzed.

For a moment, no one breathed. Ronan’s focus shifted from my face to Specter’s arms still loosely around me, and something dangerous flashed across his expression—a flash of possessive fury quickly mastered.

The air crackled with unspoken tension. Specter didn’t immediately release me—instead, he helped me to my feet with deliberate care, a subtle provocation that made Ronan’s jaw tighten visibly.

I stood between them, suddenly the focal point of a silent confrontation between predators. The basement hummed with tension—neither man willing to break eye contact or yield ground.

Ronan’s fingers curled at his sides—not quite fists, but the promise of violence. Specter shifted his weight forward slightly, adjusting his stance. The message in both movements was clear—they were measuring each other, calculating risks and advantages.

The electronic chirp of Specter’s phone broke the standoff with jarring suddenness.

I seized the moment to wipe tears from my face, returning to my workstation with forced steadiness. The scattered papers from my outburst still littered the floor, but I stepped over them, focusing on my laptop with manufactured concentration.

“I have to take this,” Specter said, voice neutral as he stepped away to answer .

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing nothing, simply needing somewhere to fix my attention that wasn’t Ronan. His presence filled the room like a physical pressure—still by the doorway, still watching, rainwater pooling at his feet.

Specter’s voice dropped to a low, urgent murmur as he turned away. His posture changed instantly—the man who awkwardly comforted me vanishing, replaced by the predator receiving hunting coordinates.

Boot heels clicked against concrete as Ronan finally moved from the doorway. I tensed, refusing to look up, my pride a fragile shield against whatever might come next.

Metal scraped against metal from the direction of the weapons table—the familiar sounds of a man preparing for violence. Magazine checks. Blade inspection. The routines that centered him.

Specter ended his call and turned back to face us. For a heartbeat, the basement felt impossibly crowded—three broken people with lethal skills crowded into a space barely large enough for one.

“We have Brock’s location,” he announced without preamble.

My head snapped up, and all other concerns were temporarily suspended. This was our first concrete lead since escaping Brock’s facility.

“Where?” Ronan’s voice was sandpaper-rough, as if he’d spent hours in silence.

“Private house owned by Oblivion outside Campinas,” Specter replied, his eyes shifting between us. “My contact has confirmed that no one from Oblivion should intervene. Brock’s running this operation off-book.”

“Which means he’ll have his own security,” Ronan stated, moving toward the weapons table with predatory focus.

“Extensive security,” Specter corrected. “My contact can’t help directly—they’ve risked enough just giving us this intel.”

Ronan nodded once, all business now. “Then we’ll handle it ourselves. You and I ca...”

“No,” Specter cut him off with surprising firmness. “This isn’t a two-man job. Not with Brock’s resources.” His eyes flicked briefly to me before returning to Ronan. “We’re going to need a third pair of hands.”