Page 58 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

A red warning light flashed as I disabled the last camera in the east sector. I held my breath, but no alarm sounded.

My gaze jumped between monitors until I spotted him—a well-dressed man with military bearing, standing at a floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor. Papers spread across an ornate desk behind him.

“Target confirmed in the main office on the second floor,” I reported, voice tight. “East-facing room with balcony. He’s alone.”

The biometric door locks required a cascading shutdown rather than direct disabling. My fingers cramped as I executed the complex sequence Specter had taught me.

“Systems compromised,” I finally announced. “You are clear to proceed.”

I followed Ronan’s instructions, dragging a heavy bookcase across the security hub’s entrance, then wedging an antique desk chair under the handle. No one was getting in without warning me.

Turning back to the monitors, I keyed my comm. “It’s a go.”

I watched the screens intently as Ronan and Specter materialized from the darkness, moving gracefully toward the estate.

On the eastern perimeter screen, Ronan appeared like a summoned spirit—one moment there was only manicured landscape, the next he was moving through it with purpose.

The transformation was jarring. The man I’d slept beside, whose hesitant smile I’d memorized, now moved with mechanical accuracy, his body a weapon deployed with devastating efficiency.

Two guards patrolled near the infinity pool, unaware. Ronan reached the first before the man registered movement. The guard’s head snapped back, body going limp. The second guard turned, mouth opening in alarm, but Ronan was already there, a shadow detaching from shadows.

“Oh God,” I whispered, fingers pressed against my lips.

On screen, Ronan was terrifying—fluid, lethal, unstoppable.

Specter appeared on a different monitor, his approach entirely different. Where Ronan confronted, Specter diverted. He fought only when cornered, using the building itself as his weapon—a chandelier released at the perfect moment, a sliding door timed to separate pursuers.

“Section clear,” Ronan’s voice came through my comm, calm despite what I’d just witnessed.

My hands trembled slightly, but I forced myself to focus. “Two more coming around the tropical garden corner, Specter.”

I toggled between feeds, coordinating their movements through the sprawling estate. The journalist in me noted how blood looked almost black on security feeds, the obscene contrast between violence and luxury.

I froze as a new figure appeared on one of the monitors, exiting a room into the hallway. Something about his confident stride made my pulse quicken.

“Ronan, Specter—Brock’s on the third floor, east corridor,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Nothing in his demeanor suggested awareness of the intrusion—until his phone rang. I watched his face transform on screen. The confidence drained away, replaced by something cold and calculating. He barked orders at someone off-camera, his entire body language shifting from controlled to predatory.

“He’s onto us,” I reported, fingers flying across the keyboard as I switched between cameras to track new movement throughout the estate.

Guards changing positions, staff hurrying with purpose—the entire building shifting like an organism suddenly aware of invaders in its system.

My breath caught in the back of my throat.

Shit. They were definitely aware of our presence now, but I couldn’t allow myself to panic right now.

Brock turned toward his private monitor bank, lips moving in what looked like rapid-fire commands. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read enough.

I focused on the screens showing Ronan and Specter’s progress, swallowing the urge to alert them about the new development. On monitor six, a guard with a military stance walked with purpose toward the security hub. Toward me.

“Two more coming around the corner, Ronan,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the sickening lurch in my stomach. “East corridor, armed.”

I glanced at the barricade I’d constructed—a bookcase pushed against the door and a chair wedged under the handle. It would slow someone down, but not stop them. Not for long.

My gaze returned to the screens. I had fought to be included in this mission. I had insisted I could handle it. And now…

A heavy thud against the door made me jump. The chair wobbled slightly against the handle .

“Confirming Brock’s position?” Ronan asked through the comms.

I forced myself to scan the monitors. “Third floor, moving west. Two armed men with him.” My voice betrayed nothing of the second, harder thud behind me.

I did my best to ignore it. They needed to focus on Brock and get information about Xavier.

If I distracted them now, everything could fall apart.

Another slam against the door, this time accompanied by a voice. “Open the fucking door— now !”

The metal security door groaned as something heavy crashed against it. The bookcase slid an inch, shaking the desk.

What would Ronan do? What would Xavier do?

I searched the security hub, looking for anything that could help me—a weapon, an escape route. There was nothing but computer equipment and—wait.

My eyes locked on an oversized red fire extinguisher in the corner, filled with chemicals designed to extinguish flames without damaging electronics.

The door shuddered again. A crack appeared at its edge. I more than likely only had moments before they tore their way in.

I finished downloading files to my portable drive and pocketed it, then turned to the fire suppression controls. The steel canister was heavy-duty, industrial-grade, and contained chemicals that displaced oxygen.

“Status update on east wing?” Specter’s voice in my ear.

“Clear for the next thirty seconds,” I replied automatically, climbing onto a chair to reach the canister’s manual release valve .

The door splintered at the hinges. Through the widening crack, I glimpsed a man’s face—determined, angry, dangerous.

I uncoupled the canister from its mount, breaking the seal. It was heavier than I expected, maybe thirty pounds. My arms strained with the effort as I positioned myself beside the door, balancing the canister against my hip.

“One minute to target,” Ronan reported.

The door burst open with a crack of broken wood. The bookcase toppled forward. A man in tactical gear stepped through, weapon raised.

I slammed my palm against the manual release valve and aimed the canister directly at his face.

A pressurized cloud of white chemical powder exploded from the nozzle with shocking force, filling the small room instantly. The guard staggered backward, choking and blind, his weapon clattering to the floor as he clawed at his streaming eyes and gasping mouth.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I advanced, keeping the stream directed at his face while he stumbled backward, colliding with the wall behind him. His knees buckled as he struggled to breathe in the chemical cloud.

When he finally collapsed, I dropped the nearly empty canister and scrambled for his fallen weapon. My hands shook so badly that I could barely grip it. The chemical residue burned my eyes and throat, but I forced myself back to the monitors.

“Third floor clear,” Ronan reported. “Moving to target. ”

“Copy,” I croaked, watching their approach to Brock’s location. “No additional guards in your path.”

I glanced at the unconscious man on the floor, his face covered in white powder. I felt no triumph—just a hollow, trembling exhaustion and the stark understanding that I’d crossed another line I never thought I would.

“Status, Maeve?” Ronan’s voice cut through my shock.

I stumbled away from the unconscious guard, wiping chemical dust from my hands onto my pants. My throat burned with each breath.

“I’m—I’m here,” I managed. “Still monitoring.”

I didn’t tell him about this guard, either. I couldn’t tell him. Not when everything hinged on his focus.

“Wait!” I squinted at one of the screens. “Specter’s in trouble. Main entrance, east side.”

The monitor showed Specter surrounded by five guards. He moved with impossible speed, a blur of calculated violence. One attacker dropped, then another, but more appeared from adjoining hallways.

“He’s outnumbered,” I reported. “They’re converging from multiple points.”

I scanned other feeds, trying to locate Ronan. Gardens, corridors, the infinity pool with its dead guards—where was he?

“Ronan, confirm position,” I said, toggling between cameras.

No response.

“Ronan?” My pulse quickened. “Do you copy?”

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of gunfire from Specter’s position on the monitor.

I found him on the third-floor feed—a sleek, modernist office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking S?o Paulo’s glittering nightscape.

Brock stood with his back to those windows, city lights creating an artificial halo behind his silhouette. Ronan stood ten feet away, poised like a predator. They faced each other in perfect stillness.

“Found you,” I whispered.

Something was wrong. Brock should be surprised and afraid. Instead, he stood with the relaxed posture of a man in complete control.

“Maeve.” Ronan’s voice was terrifyingly calm in my ear. “Get out. Now.”

My breath caught as the horrible truth crashed over me. The mission, our planning, our confidence—all of it was exactly what Brock had expected. We hadn’t infiltrated his estate.

He had invited us in.