Page 55 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

I remained still, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

My breathing grew shallow as his words worked beneath my defenses, touching something I’d tried to protect.

He was the one who pushed me away. He was the one who wanted to stay away.

So, why was he doing all of this? Why was he dragging me back in, only to push me away further?

“Ronan…”

“You dragged me out of that darkness. Like… like finding light.” His voice fractured on the word. “A light I don’t deserve to see, let alone touch.”

His forehead dropped against mine, the gesture so unexpectedly gentle, it stole my breath.

“So yes, I wanted to send you away. Far from Oblivion, from Brock, from Specter.” A shuddering breath warmed my lips.

“From me. But it’s not because I don’t want you next to me.

It’s because I want you alive and well more than I selfishly want you by my side.

For the first time in a long time… I’m scared of losing something.

Do you have any idea what that’s like? To be a man who hasn’t known fear for years, and now finally has something to lose? ”

His hands released my arms, moving to frame my face with the same precision he used to handle weapons—except now it carried something like reverence. His thumbs traced my cheekbones with barely there pressure.

“Everyone Oblivion touches ends up broken or dead. We’re pulled from the gutter and that’s where we return. But you, Maeve… you’re not like us. You deserve a chance. A future. A life. ”

I reached up, gripping his wrists, anchoring him to this moment, to this truth between us.

“And what about what I want?” My voice emerged quietly but unwaveringly.

I searched his eyes, refusing to look away from the pain and yearning I found there. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the only monster here is the one you’ve created in your head—this idea that you’re beyond redemption, beyond… love?”

The word “love” hit him visibly. He flinched back, eyes widening with something like fear.

“Don’t.” he started, then stopped. “You can’t.” Another failed attempt.

His breathing became ragged, his hands trembling in the space between us.

I held his gaze, watching emotions battle across his face. The word I’d spoken hung between us like something volatile, dangerous. His hands shook visibly, and I realized I’d never seen his iron control fracture this completely before.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Ronan finally whispered, all pretense abandoned. “How to be wanted. To be… chosen.” The last word emerged reverent, terrified. “I don’t remember ever being chosen for something other than violence.”

The raw honesty in his voice dismantled my remaining anger. The wall I’d built after he tried to send me away crumbled, leaving only the truth between us. Deliberately, I stepped toward him, moving slowly enough that he could retreat if he needed to .

My hand reached for his face, my movements measured and deliberate. When he remained still, I traced the scar at his temple with feather-light pressure, feeling the raised tissue like a physical record of his suffering.

“Then let me be the one who will show you what it’s like. Let me choose you. ”

For a long moment, he stood frozen, muscles rigid beneath my touch, breathing shallow and controlled. I watched the pulse hammer in his throat, noting the almost imperceptible tremor in his jaw.

Then something broke. With a sound caught between surrender and desperation, he pulled me against him—not with violence or possession, but with the raw need of a drowning man finding shore.

We stayed locked together, neither speaking. His face pressed against my neck, my arms encircling him. The basement fell silent except for our breathing gradually synchronizing. His chest rose and fell against mine, the rhythm eventually steadying.

Time suspended as we remained connected. My hand moved slowly up his back, feeling the tension melting beneath my touch. His breathing deepened, shoulders dropping from their combat-ready position. The assassin yielded, making space for the man.

“When I started looking for Xavier,” I whispered against his shoulder, “I knew what I was risking. I had my eyes wide open.” My fingers traced small circles at the base of his neck, feeling muscles unknot beneath my touch.

“I suspected I might fail. But I knew with absolute certainty that this investigation would destroy something—my career, my friendships, my reputation.” I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, needing him to understand this fundamental truth.

“And I accepted that I might die. One way or another, my life would never be the same again. I made that choice before I ever met you.”

Something shifted in Ronan’s expression—the vulnerability didn’t vanish, but beside it emerged something fierce and determined. The man and the weapon, existing simultaneously.

“You may lose many things,” he said, voice low and fierce, “but not your life. Not while I’m breathing.”

Before I could respond, he claimed my mouth in a kiss that left no room for argument. Unlike our previous encounters, this wasn’t about desire or comfort—it was a declaration, a vow sealed with bruising intensity. His hands held me as if challenging fate to try separating us.

When we finally broke apart, I was light-headed and unsteady. My hands rested against his chest, feeling the thundering rhythm of his heart. We remained connected, foreheads touching, sharing breath.

His hands slid lower, gripping my hips with unmistakable intent. The kiss deepened, turned hungrier as he walked me backward until I hit the desk. With one swift movement, he lifted me onto it, stepping between my legs as his mouth traveled down my neck.

“Ronan,” I whispered, my body responding instantly even as my brain tried to form a coherent thought. “We can’t.”

“We can,” he murmured against my skin, teeth grazing my collarbone. “We absolutely can.”

His hands found their way under my shirt, warm against my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. I arched into his touch involuntarily, my body betraying my better judgment.

“The mission,” I managed weakly, “Tomorrow…”

“Is exactly why we should,” he countered, the heat of his mouth making it impossible to think clearly. “Right now. On this desk.”

My resolve weakened as his hands continued their skilled exploration. For a moment, I was ready to surrender, to hell with everything else…

“Specter,” I gasped, pushing against Ronan’s chest. “He’ll be back any minute.”

Ronan growled, low and frustrated, but didn’t stop his assault on my neck.

I pushed harder against him. “Unless you want him to see my bare ass on this desk, we need to stop.”

That did it. Ronan froze, then pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. Something possessive and darkly territorial flashed across his face.

“He doesn’t get to see that,” he stated flatly, the assassin’s coldness returning, though directed elsewhere now. “No one gets to see that but me.”

Despite everything, I found myself laughing. “Seriously? That’s what got through to you?”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, transforming his face. It was small but genuine—a rarity I treasured. He stepped back, allowing me space, though his eyes still burned with promise.

“When this is over,” he said, voice low and deliberate, each word a vow, “when Brock is dealt with, your brother is safe and we’re free of Oblivion’s shadow…

I’m going to take my time with you. Properly.

Thoroughly.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness.

“Consider that a promise, Maeve Durham.”

The way he said my name—like something precious and rare—sent heat rushing through me all over again. Before I could respond, the basement door creaked open.

Ronan stepped away smoothly, his expression shifting back to mission-ready neutrality with practiced ease. But as he turned toward his weapons, he shot me one final look over his shoulder—a look that carried… everything.

Together. After tomorrow. If we survived.