Page 6 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

My heartbeat counted down my remaining seconds—each thud against my ribs another moment he allowed me to live. I couldn’t decide which was more dangerous: his body boxing me against the wall, or the questions burning behind his eyes.

“What makes you special?” Each word caressed my skin like a physical touch. “What makes you different from every other target? How did you do that?”

His free hand rose, knuckles brushing my cheek with unexpected gentleness. It was almost as if he deemed me something fragile, something more delicate than everything else in this dark world of his. And perhaps that was what I had been. Someone to show him the way.

The contrast between his lethal presence and the almost tender gesture sent contradictory signals racing through my body. My pulse hammered traitorously loud in my ears.

“I’ve killed hundreds.” The confession was delivered like a seduction. “Never hesitated. Never failed.” His thumb traced the curve of my lower lip. “Until you.”

I hated the shiver that ran through me, hated the heat blooming beneath my skin. This was calculated, another interrogation technique, another form of control. Yet my body responded to his proximity with a primitive recognition that terrified me more than his violence did.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my mouth.

For one bewildering moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.

My lips parted involuntarily. I knew it was a crazy reaction, yet I had no hold over it.

Despite just meeting him, I felt a pull so magnetic that it clouded my judgment.

He was a broken piece in their system; I wanted to fix him.

He didn’t kiss me though. Instead, his hand slid to my throat, gripping. Not enough to cut off air, just enough to remind me who controlled my next breath.

“Why did you ask my name?” His eyes bored into mine, searching for answers. “Why was I sent to kill you? What do you know?”

I swallowed against his palm. “I was testing a theory.”

“What theory?” His grip tightened fractionally.

“That’s not how this works. You are not the only one who can ask questions.” I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat, quickly darting my gaze away from those intense eyes. I was melting under his gaze; I could barely stand it.

His body tensed suddenly, head turning slightly toward the window.

I didn’t hear anything, but his expression shifted into tactical awareness.

Reaper’s head tilted slightly, his attention shifting from me to something I couldn’t detect.

His posture changed, almost imperceptibly—from predatory to alert.

“How many people know you’re here?” he asked.

“I…do n’t know,” I answered automatically. I wanted to tell him no one, but if I was to trust my contact, that wasn’t the truth. They had taken a while, and I was hoping that it’d be just a false alarm, but now that I stared at Reaper’s face…I wasn’t so sure that was the truth anymore.

His eyes narrowed. “Then we have company.”

He moved silently to the window, staying to the side of the frame as he peered through a gap in the curtains. I remained frozen against the wall, afraid to move.

“Local idiots,” he said, his tone clinical. “Three at the stairs. Two more approaching from the east lot. Coordinated movement pattern suggests they’ve been watching this room.”

“Watching me,” I realized. The men I’d noticed earlier when I checked in—the ones lounging by the vending machines, eyes tracking me as I carried my bag upstairs. “They’re armed,” Reaper continued, as if discussing the weather. “Primitive, but effective. Machetes. At least one firearm.”

Terror struck fresh—trapped between an assassin and violent criminals. The perfect lose, lose scenario.

Reaper’s entire demeanor changed, his focus splitting between me and the approaching threat.

“Testing your theory will get you killed, one way or another,” he said, his attention returning fully to me. My mouth gaped open, but I couldn’t say any words stuck in the back of my throat.

“You have a choice.” His voice went flat, clinical again.

“Die by my hand—quick, painless.” He pressed slightly on my throat to emphasize the point.

“Or die by theirs. I’ve seen what local gangs do to women they catch alone.

Your death would be neither quick nor painless.

” He leaned closer, lips nearly brushing my ear. “What’s it going to be?”

I met his gaze, searching for any hint of humanity behind those cold blue eyes. “Those are my only options? Death by your hand or theirs?”

“Unless you have a better offer.”

My mind raced through possibilities, discarding each as quickly as they formed. His cold blue eyes watched, calculating, waiting for my decision.

But there was a third option. I’d seen something in him. A hesitation. A fracture in whatever programming they’d installed. I’d struck a nerve with my questions about his name, his past killings. Small cracks, but cracks nonetheless.

And now, curiosity. Why didn’t he kill me? What made me different? He wasn’t just asking me those questions—he was asking himself.

I needed to get out of here alive, and he was my only chance. Not just to escape this room, but to finally get answers. He was the first solid lead I’d had in months. And if I made it out with him, maybe he could help me find my brother, too.

“There’s always a better offer,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You want to know why you hesitated. I want to know why someone wants me dead. We both have questions only the other can answer.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to lock further onto mine, almost as if he was telling me he was listening .

“I’ll make you a deal,” I continued quickly. “You get me out of here alive, away from whoever’s coming, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Then you decide if you still want to kill me.”

He stared at me, unblinking. “You have nothing to trade.”

“I made you hesitate twice,” I countered. “That’s never happened before, right? Don’t you want to know why?”

Something flickered in his eyes—that same crack in the perfect operative I’d glimpsed before. I pushed harder.

“Your handler probably doesn’t know about your hesitation, or you wouldn’t be here alone,” she whispered. “Whatever has happened, you not killing me, the questions gnawing at you… they’ve done something to you, and it’s breaking down now.”

His jaw clenched. I was right.

“We help each other,” I said. “You want answers. So do I.”

The silence stretched between us, interrupted only by my pounding heart and his controlled breathing. Outside, I heard what he’d detected earlier—the faint sound of footsteps in the corridor. They grew louder, more deliberate. Multiple men.

Then came the first heavy knock, making me flinch.

“Hey, American lady!” A thick Portuguese accent slurred through the thin door. “We know you in there!”

More laughter, then another voice, “Open door! We just want to talk!”

The doorknob rattled violently. These were the same men who’d eyed me when I checked in—the ones with predatory stares who’d followed me halfway to my room before I’d quickened my pace.

Despite the noise that grew louder outside my door, Reaper and I remained in our spots, not budging. He only had moments to make a decision before all of this went to hell.

“Come out, pretty lady!” Another fist pounded the door, harder this time. “We show you a good time in S?o Paulo!”

Something scraped against the lock—a makeshift pick or credit card. My throat tightened as one of them switched to rapid Portuguese, too fast for me to catch, but the mocking tone needed no translation.

“Please,” I whispered to the assassin standing motionless across from me. Desperation gripped me tightly now that the threat stood just outside my door. I couldn’t let my story end like this.

I couldn’t let down Xavier. If I didn’t look for him…no one else would.

My hand reached for his, as if that simple motion would somehow bring him back into the present. “I can help you. You know it’s true.”

He made a brief motion with his head, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Bathroom. Now.”

I didn’t question. I ducked under his arm and moved swiftly to the bathroom door. He followed, steps silent as a ghost.

I frantically scanned the cramped bathroom, panic rising. The window was barely larger than a shoebox—no way either of us could fit through that. What was Reaper’s plan? To kill me in a bathroom instead of the bedroom ?

“There’s no way out,” I whispered urgently, turning back to him. “The window’s too small.”

Reaper didn’t respond. Instead, he moved past me toward the ancient bathtub with its stained enamel and rust, ringed drain. I’d noticed it earlier when I checked the bathroom—just another depressing feature of this decrepit motel room.

He knelt beside the tub and ran his fingers along its edge where it met the wall. I heard footsteps in the hallway growing closer.

“What are you...”

“Quiet,” he commanded, his voice barely audible.

His fingers stopped at a particular spot where the caulking had completely deteriorated. With a swift, controlled movement, he pressed against the side panel of the bathtub. There was a dull click, and the entire panel shifted inward.

My jaw dropped. “How did you...”

“Maintenance access,” he said, already removing the panel completely to reveal a dark space beyond. “Old buildings like this often have them. The plumbing runs between rooms.”

I stared in disbelief. I’d inspected the bathroom thoroughly when I checked in—a habit from years of paranoid journalism—but hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the bathtub. The panel had been seamlessly integrated despite its deteriorated seal.

“You first,” he said, gesturing to the opening.

I hesitated, peering into the darkness. It was a tight space that appeared to run parallel to the rooms. Pipes lined one side, and years of dust covered everything. The ancient wood looked rotted in places.