Page 54 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

I slammed my fingers against the keyboard, each keystroke punctuating my anger. The basement air hung heavy with tension, the harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in unforgiving clarity.

Focus. I needed to focus. The mission was tomorrow, and if I didn’t finish compiling this evidence, everything we’d risked would be for nothing.

Specter had slipped out an hour ago to gather “equipment”—his deliberately vague explanation telling me everything and nothing.

The thought of what weapons he was collecting made my stomach clench.

My eyes burned, vision blurring from exhaustion. I blinked hard, refusing to acknowledge the headache building behind my temples. Sleep wasn’t an option—not after what had happened earlier.

Ronan’s words still cut fresh, “She’s not going in.” Three words, delivered with such cold finality that even Specter had hesitated.

But Specter had won that argument. “She’s the only one who can handle the security hub,” he’d insisted. “Without someone managing those systems, we’re walking into a death trap.”

The logic was undeniable. The security protocols I’d uncovered in the Oblivion files required someone with my specific knowledge. Someone who understood the systems well enough to create a diversion while Ronan and Specter found Brock.

Someone expendable.

I glanced across the room where Ronan sat dismantling a handgun, efficiency in every action. His shoulders formed a rigid line, tension visible even from there. He hadn’t spoken a word to me in hours.

The silence between us had become another presence in the room—dense and suffocating. Even our breathing seemed calculated, as if neither of us wanted to disturb the fragile détente we’d established.

I opened another file from the Oblivion data, deliberately pulling up Ronan’s personnel assessment.

I found myself staring at his cold, clinical evaluation, wondering why I’d opened it in particular.

Something about the language fascinated and horrified me—the way they’d reduced him to data points and performance metrics.

My journalist’s instinct kicked in as I scanned the text:

The subject demonstrates an exceptional capacity for calculated violence without performance degradation. Unlike previous subjects, exhibits pathological detachment during elimination protocols while maintaining strategic awareness .

I glanced at him—his head bent in concentration, jaw set in a hard line. The man described in these files seemed both alien and familiar.

Neural conditioning remains stable through Generation Prima modifications. Trauma response successfully redirected into mission parameters. The subject shows the highest pain threshold in program history.

Another stolen glance. The scar at his temple caught the light, a permanent reminder of what they’d done to him. I noticed how he breathed—perfectly spaced, controlled. Even now, his discipline never wavered.

Recommendation: Continue specialized deployment for high-complexity eliminations. Note: The subject exhibits a concerning pattern of mission parameter interpretation when operational autonomy exceeds 72 hours.

My fingers paused over the keyboard. I leaned forward, forgetting to maintain my careful disinterest. These weren’t just files anymore—this was Ronan. This was the man across from me, reduced to cold assessment by the people who broke and remade him.

WARNING: Subject displays abnormal resistance to memory suppression protocols. Recommend shortened field deployment cycles and increased conditioning maintenance.

I scrolled further, my shoulders hunching forward as I pressed closer to the screen. My anger had transformed into something else—a desperate need to understand the contradiction sitting yards away from me .

Asset shows concerning compassionate patterns during deep cover operations. Recommend psychological recalibration focusing on empathetic response suppression.

The irony stole my breath. Even as Oblivion tried to erase his humanity, it kept resurfacing. I memorized phrases, technical specifications, storing them away not just as evidence but as pieces of the puzzle that was Ronan—

The sudden absence of sound broke my concentration. The rhythmic clicking of metal parts had stopped.

A prickling sensation ran up my spine. I sensed movement in my peripheral vision—a shadow shifting where there shouldn’t be one.

I stared at my monitor a moment too long, catching his reflection in the darkened portions of my screen. He was halfway across the room already, his posture transformed into something predatory.

I refused to look up as his shadow fell across my keyboard.

His reflection loomed on my screen—tall, imposing, radiating controlled rage.

My fingers continued typing nonsense, muscle memory taking over while my mind raced.

When I finally met his gaze, his eyes locked onto mine, then flicked to the screen where his file lay open.

“Satisfying your curiosity about the monster?” His voice cut through the silence. The words hung between us, sharp-edged and dangerous.

My instinct to deny it died in my throat. Instead, I straightened my spine and reached for the professional armor I’d relied on throughout my career. “I’m finishing my report so my contacts can publish immediately after we move on to Brock tomorrow. Just doing my job.”

He circled behind me, his movements so silent I had to fight the urge to turn and track him. The hair on my neck rose as I felt him studying me.

I didn’t understand any of this. How could he have held me so tenderly, been so protective over me, only for his mind to change entirely now?

Despite what Specter had told me, I could barely recognize him, and that scared the hell out of me.

Was he truly trying to protect me, or was he already shifting to the man he once was?

I refused to believe the latter. I refused to accept it as an option.

“And what’s your protection plan after publication? Once this goes public, you’ll be hunted by more than just Oblivion.”

I deliberately dismissed him without looking up, fingers continuing to type. “That’s none of your business, as you so clearly pointed out.” Each word was aimed like a bullet, my journalist’s shield sliding into place.

Ronan moved with assassin’s speed, suddenly at my side. The heat radiating from his body made it harder to maintain my composure. “None of my business?” His voice dropped dangerously.

My pulse jumped, but I kept my expression neutral, refusing to let him see how he affected me.

“I know exactly how much you don’t want me here. We don’t need to talk or even be close, do we? In fact, Specter can update me about any mission changes if necessary. ”

Something dark flashed across Ronan’s face at Specter’s name—a visible crack in his control that sent warning signals racing through my body.

In one fluid motion too fast to counter, he closed the distance between us, spinning my chair and pulling me to my feet. My back hit the concrete wall as he caged me in, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my arm with enough pressure to hold, not enough to hurt.

“So that’s it?” His voice dropped to a growl, face inches from mine. “The moment I want to protect you, you run to Specter? Was that embrace I walked in on earlier just the beginning?”

The accusation landed a slap. Not fear but rage flooded my system, cold and clarifying.

I turned slightly away, my voice dropping to deadly calm.

“You think I’d run to another man? That I’d just replace you like switching weapons?

” A bitter laugh escaped me as I met his gaze directly.

“You’ve always seen the worst in me, haven’t you?

You look at me and see weakness. A liability.

Something to be shipped away and protected, or avoided like a complication you can’t solve.

” I delivered the final blow with ice in my voice.

“Well, don’t worry, Reaper . I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.

Then you can go back to being whatever version of yourself helps you sleep at night. ”

His fingers flexed against my arm, something raw and desperate fracturing his expression. The assassin’s mask slipped, revealing a vulnerability that caught me off-guard.

“Ronan,” he corrected, voice rough with emotion. “ My name is Ronan. ”

I stared at him, inches from my face, his gaze intense and unrelenting. His grip on my arms neither tightened nor loosened—just held me in place, as if he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.

“You said yourself you don’t remember half the things that Ronan did,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like shattered glass on my lips. “I thought I was doing you a favor by not using it. My mistake. I’ll remember to use it until we part ways.”

I tried to pull away, but his hands remained firm, keeping me against the wall. The fluorescent light above us flickered, momentarily plunging his face into darkness before revealing it again.

For a heartbeat, raw vulnerability crossed his features.

“I don’t hate it when you say it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to something that contradicted his grip. “When you say my name… I don’t see the monster in my memories.”

His confession threw me off-balance, surprise cracking through my carefully constructed defenses. The professional facade I’d perfected through years of investigative journalism suddenly felt paper thin.

He shifted closer, the pressure of his body changing from confrontational to seeking connection. His chest pressed against mine, pinning me to the wall not with intimidation but with desperate need. His mouth hovered near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

“When I’m with you, I feel something like peace.” The admission sounded torn from him, reluctant yet unstoppable. “For the first time since I can remember, my head is quiet. ”