Page 60 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

“But she refused me.” Brock’s voice turned dangerous, dropping to an intimate tone that made my skin crawl. “She pushed me away. Said she couldn’t bear to be with another monster.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “As if she had a choice.”

“No,” I whispered, the word barely audible.

“Staging her suicide was simple,” Brock continued, savoring each syllable.

He reached for the photograph again, turning it face-down.

“Everyone knew how unhappy she was as your wife. No one questioned that she’d finally broken.

All those paper headlines came so handy to bury everything.

With your absence, things just… added up so wonderfully. ”

The gun grew impossibly heavy. My finger still wouldn’t move on the trigger.

Brock stepped back, adjusting his cufflinks with clinical detachment. “It was a business decision, really. Loose ends and all that. I’m sure you understand.”

His fingers worked the platinum with practiced ease, the same fingers that had signed Sofia’s death warrant. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint, everything peripheral fading to static. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat driving Sofia’s face deeper into my consciousness.

“Once we get you back where you belong, there’s the matter of the journalist.” His voice dropped to a silky whisper.

He leaned forward, one hand braced on the desk.

“ She’s become quite the liability. I’ll need to deal with her personally, just like Sofia.

Consider it compensation for the trouble you’ve caused.

Though, I will have my fun with Maeve. That much, I can promise you. ”

Something snapped inside me. Not like the conditioning breaks—this was deeper, more primal.

The frozen part of me that had been watching, calculating, and analyzing shattered into rage.

The thought of him touching Maeve, of her ending up like Sofia, made everything crystallize with terrible clarity.

I wouldn’t let him take another person I loved. Not again. Never again.

I dropped the gun.

Brock’s eyes widened a fraction—the first genuine surprise he’d shown. He didn’t understand—didn’t realize that the weapon was holding me back.

I lunged across the space between us with inhuman speed. The pistol fell forgotten from my grasp as primal need overwhelmed me—to crush, to tear, to destroy him with my bare hands.

My fingers locked around Brock’s throat as we crashed into the ironwood desk. Glass shattered as the crystal decanter toppled. The stench of expensive liquor filled the air, mixing with sweat and cologne. Brock’s eyes widened momentarily before a knowing smile crept across his face.

“Anchor. Vessel. Marionette.”

The words hit me like physical blows. Each syllable drove spikes of agony through my skull, fracturing my vision into kaleidoscopic shards. I maintained my grip, but my arms trembled with sudden, inexplicable weakness .

“Did you think,” Brock wheezed through my loosening hold, “I wouldn’t have… my own failsafe?”

I redoubled my efforts, slamming him against the desk. Papers scattered. A monitor crashed to the floor. The room spun around us in a whirlwind of motion and destruction.

“Anchor. Vessel. Marionette.”

He repeated the words more deliberately, enunciating each like a gleeful sadist. White-hot agony exploded behind my eyes, turning my vision crimson.

Vertigo slammed into me as if the floor had dropped away.

A metallic taste flooded my mouth as blood trickled from my nose. My grip faltered completely.

Brock slipped free like water through fingers, straightening his tie with one hand while shoving me backward with the other. I staggered, legs suddenly uncooperative, mind fragmenting.

“A little insurance policy the Director doesn’t know about,” Brock explained, brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate suit.

His voice sounded distant, distorted beneath the thunder of my own heartbeat.

“I personally added these triggers during your initial conditioning. Just between us partners.”

Each word dripped with sarcasm as he circled me. The room tilted violently. Objects—desk, chairs, shattered glass—shifted in and out of focus. My knees buckled beneath me.

I dropped to the floor, my legs folding uselessly beneath me. My pistol clattered against hardwood, sliding away from my reach. I lunged for it, but my coordination had abandoned me. My fingers grasped emptiness.

“It’s beautiful, really,” Brock continued, pacing with methodical steps. He retrieved the gun from the floor, turning it over in his hands with appreciation. “The great Ronan Graves, kneeling before me at last.”

I struggled against the invisible weight crushing down on me. My vision alternated between crystal clarity and foggy confusion with each hammering heartbeat. Every muscle screamed as I fought to stand, managing only to raise myself to one knee before collapsing again.

“I’ve waited years for this moment,” Brock said, voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “To see you exactly where you belong. At my knees. Obeying whatever the hell I tell you to do.”

My body trembled violently as I fought the programming.

I tried to hold onto things—Maeve, our mission, Specter, a new life I could live if we handled this.

I had come too far just to lose all of it to a bastard like Brock.

But the more I fought, the worse the agony inside me erupted, threatening to swallow me whole.

Every muscle strained against the invisible chains tightening around my mind.

Brock circled me like a predator making its final assessment before consuming its prey. His shoes thumped against the floor with each step, the sound hammering into my fractured consciousness.

“Anchor,” he said again, savoring the word .

My vision narrowed to a tunnel, darkness crowding the edges. All I could see was her—Maeve. Reaching out for me. Fighting to get to me.

“Vessel.”

My throat constricted as if invisible hands squeezed the air from my lungs. The image of her vanished from my vision. My sight blackened out as I tried to focus on supplying my lungs with air—unsuccessfully.

“Marionette.”

The final word drove me completely to my knees, spine bowing under unseen pressure. The room splintered into fragments—one moment clear, the next obscured by static and shadow. I remained conscious, but my body no longer obeyed my commands.

“Perfect,” Brock whispered, crouching to bring his face level with mine.

I struggled against invisible manacles as my knees pressed into the floor. My body felt divided—nerves transmitting agony, muscles refusing commands, brain screaming orders that never reached their destination. Blood filled my mouth where I’d bitten my tongue, copper-salt mingling with bile.

The room tilted and warped. Shattered glass glittered across the floor from our earlier struggle—diamonds scattered across dark wood. My vision pulsed with each labored heartbeat, clarity coming in waves between darkness.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The antique clock on the wall counted down my remaining freedom. Each second drove deeper fractures into my consciousness .

“All that effort to reclaim your identity,” Brock said, his voice oscillating between thunderous and distant as my hearing distorted. “And for what? To kneel before me anyway?”

A violent tremor ripped through me. With monumental effort, I raised my head to meet his gaze. Blood trickled from my nose, dripping onto the hardwood below.

“Why not… just kill me?” I managed to ask, each word a battle.

Brock laughed, the sound like broken glass. “And waste such a valuable asset? The Director wants you reconditioned, not eliminated.” He leaned down, close enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Though I did volunteer to personally oversee your retrieval. For old times’ sake.”

The shadows crept closer from the corners, alive and hungry.

I’d been there before.

The memory crashed through my fragmented mind—the same office, different time. Kneeling as Brock stood above me, speaking to men in expensive suits. The asset requires recalibration. His loyalty parameters have shifted.

“You were always my finest creation, Ronan,” Brock said, circling closer. His shoes clicked against the floor with each measured step. “The perfect weapon before Oblivion, just not perfectly loyal. We’ll fix that this time.”

Every word drove another spike into my skull. My body trembled with the effort to move, to speak, to resist the programming burning through my nerves like molten lead .

Maeve’s face flashed behind my eyes once more—her determined expression as she crawled through the vent, her trust when I promised to protect her, her smile against my chest in the darkness.

Terror gripped me, not for myself but for her.

If I was gone, lost in the programming once more, who would protect her from this fate?

Brock stopped suddenly, reading my expression. His head tilted, studying me like a scientist observing a specimen. He crouched, bringing his face level with mine. His cologne mixed with the metallic scent of blood, creating a nauseating combination.

“Don’t worry about Ms. Durham,” he said, his voice intimate, almost gentle. He placed the barrel of my own gun against my temple. “Like I said, I’ll personally take care of her once you’re secure.”

My jaw clenched so tightly I heard teeth crack. Through sheer will, I forced words past the neural blockade.

“You… won’t… touch her.”

Brock’s smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. “You really don’t understand your position, do you?” He pressed the gun harder against my skin. “After what I do to her, she’ll beg for the mercy of a bullet. And you’ll be the one holding the gun.”

I strained against invisible restraints. Blood vessels burst in my eyes, painting my vision crimson. My entire body shuddered with the effort to resist, muscles standing out like cords across my neck and arms .

“First, I’ll have you watch,” Brock continued, voice thick with anticipation. “I want to see your eyes when you realize how completely you’ve failed her.”

Consciousness fractured around the edges. I’m sorry, Maeve. I tried. I failed you like I failed Sofia.

Specter. Find her. Protect her. Please.

Brock stood, straightening his jacket. He aimed the gun at my head, then reconsidered and lowered it. “Time to go home, Ronan.” Brock leaned down, mouth next to my ear. “When I say the final word, you’ll be mine again. Completely. Forever.”

My consciousness slipped further away, darkness crowding my vision as neural pathways shutdown under the strain of resistance.

Through the haze of impossible pain, I heard it—the barely perceptible click of the door handle turning. My consciousness flickered like a dying bulb, darkness giving way to moments of brutal clarity.

Brock didn’t hear it. He was too consumed with his victory, too focused on the broken man kneeling before him.

The door swung open silently. Light from the hallway spilled into the room, cutting a sharp line across the hardwood floor. Through pain-hazed vision, I saw a female silhouette standing in the doorway.

Maeve.

No. Not here. Not now.

Brock’s expression transformed, triumph melting into shock as he straightened from his crouch beside me. His entire body tensed, recalibrating to this unexpected variable .

The room froze in tableau. Three figures locked in a silent confrontation.

Maeve stepped forward, gun raised and aimed with surprising steadiness at Brock’s chest. Her finger rested properly on the trigger, though her grip was slightly too tight.

Her face was a mask of cold fury, but her eyes burned with determination.

She looked exactly like what she was—not a trained operative but a woman who would do anything to protect what mattered.

“Ms. Durham.” Brock recovered quickly, a false smile appearing. He adjusted his cuffs with practiced nonchalance. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

My mouth formed her name without sound. Blood trickled hot from my nose, metallic on my tongue. I needed to warn her—the trigger words. If Brock said them, she was dead. I forced every remaining ounce of strength into my vocal cords, desperate to warn her, but only a strained groan escaped.

My gaze fell to the gun in Brock’s hand, now pointed casually toward the floor between us. It gleamed in the new light from the doorway, a silent witness to the shifting power dynamics in the room.

“Get the hell away from him.” Maeve’s voice cut through my agony. Each word felt like a hammer blow against the fog in my mind.

Brock’s eyes darted around the room, calculating potential avenues of attack or escape. His body shifted subtly, weight transferring in preparation for whatever he planned next .

We formed a perfect triangle of power—Maeve with a raised gun, Brock armed but calculating, and I caught between them on my knees, fighting for consciousness.

Brock’s mouth opened, lips beginning to form a word. I couldn’t tell if it was a trigger phrase, command, or attempt at conversation, but I could see the calculation in his eyes. Maeve’s finger visibly tightened on the trigger.

My consciousness flickered as I fought to stay present, to protect her. The darkness pushed in from all sides, threatening to consume me entirely.