Page 62 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

“What are you doing?” Brock asked, genuine confusion breaking through his controlled expression. I set the weapon on the floor and kicked it away. Brock’s eyes widened in disbelief as I approached Ronan.

“Surrendering,” he said, half to himself. “Fascinating.”

I knelt before Ronan, making myself completely vulnerable. His eyes met mine—pain-filled, confused, but present. Behind me, I heard Brock’s footsteps approaching, but I focused only on Ronan.

“Brock doesn’t own you,” I whispered, taking Ronan’s face. His skin burned hot beneath my palms, slick with sweat and tears of pain. “I know you’re still in there. And I love you, Ronan Graves.”

Behind me, Brock’s sharp intake of breath shattered the silence. I kept my eyes on Ronan, watching recognition flicker across his face like lightning breaking through storm clouds.

“Don’t you fucking say his name.” Brock hissed, composure cracking. “He’s mine!”

I pressed my forehead against Ronan’s, our breaths mingling. “Stay with me, Ronan,” I murmured. “Fight it.”

“Get away from him.” The command cracked like a whip .

When I turned, Brock’s transformation shocked me. His perfect composure had fractured—tie askew, face flushed, eyes wild with something that looked alarmingly like jealousy.

“He’s mine ,” I said, rising slowly but keeping one hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “You couldn’t stand being second best. That’s why you betrayed him, why you killed Sofia.” I stepped forward, placing myself between Brock and Ronan. “And why I’m more powerful than you will ever be.”

Brock’s nostrils flared. He circled us like a predator, movements jerky and unpredictable.

“You’re nothing,” he spat, glass crunching beneath his expensive shoes. “A journalist playing detective. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with,” I countered, my hand still anchoring Ronan. “A man so insecure he had to erase his partner’s mind to feel superior.”

Something dangerous flashed across Brock’s face—a glimpse of the monster beneath the tailored suit. The overhead lights caught the scattered glass on the floor, sending rainbow fragments dancing across the walls like fractured reflections of his sanity.

“Anchor,” Brock said, eyes locked on mine rather than Ronan’s. “Vessel. Marionette.”

Behind me, Ronan screamed—a raw, animal sound of agony that tore through the room. I turned to see him clutching his head, body convulsing violently against the floor, blood trickling from his nose.

Brock laughed, the sound unhinged. “You see? He’s mine to control. Mine to break. Mine to own.”

I dropped to my knees beside Ronan again, taking his face in my hands. Blood smeared between our skin. “Remember who you are,” I said urgently. “Not Reaper. Not what they made you. You’re Ronan Graves.”

His eyes cleared for a moment, recognition fighting through the pain.

“You’re wasting your breath,” Brock sneered, stepping closer. “Anchor. Vessel...”

I launched myself at him before he could finish, driving my fist into his jaw with every ounce of strength I possessed. The impact jarred my entire arm up to the shoulder, but Brock’s head snapped back, words cutting off. For a split second, shock froze his features.

That shock transformed into rage as he backhanded me across the face.

The blow was vicious, explosive, sending me flying backward.

My skull cracked against the edge of a bookcase, vision exploding into fragments of light and dark.

Pain thundered through my head as I crumpled to the floor.

Warm wetness trickled down my temple. I touched it dazedly, fingers coming away crimson.

Through blurred vision, I saw Brock advancing toward me, adjusting his cufflinks. The mask of control had returned, somehow more terrifying than his rage.

“You should’ve run when you had the chance,” he said quietly. I tried to stand, but my legs betrayed me. Books from the toppled shelf showered around me like broken wings. The taste of copper flooded my mouth.

Behind Brock, something shifted. Ronan, previously immobilized by pain, rose to his feet. His movements were unsteady, but his eyes, fixed first on my crumpled form, then shifted to Brock, burning with something primal and deadly.

The back of my head throbbed where it hit the bookcase. I blinked hard against the blood trickling into my eyes, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before me through a haze of pain.

For a moment there, I thought Brock had gotten through to him—that he was lost. And I had never been so happy to be wrong.

Ronan launched himself at Brock with unleashed fury. His movements lacked his usual lethal precision—jerky and uncoordinated—but powered by something stronger than conditioning. Each step seemed to cost him enormously, his body fighting both Brock and the agony of resisting his programming.

“You. Will not. Touch her. Again,” Ronan almost growled through clenched teeth.

His fist connected with Brock’s jaw—a sickening crack that sent the handler stumbling backward. Blood sprayed across the pristine desk in a crimson arc.

I pressed my sleeve against my scalp, feeling warm wetness immediately soak through the fabric. The room tilted alarmingly. I needed to help. I needed to stand. And most importantly, I needed to get my hands on that gun.

Brock recovered with unexpected agility, drawing a knife from his boot. “You think I don’t know how to put you down?” he snarled. “I made you. ”

Ronan blocked the first slash but moved too slowly for the second. The blade opened a line across his forearm, adding fresh blood to the spatters already marking the floor.

They collided again—Ronan’s trained movements fought against Brock’s desperate attacks and his own damaged neural pathways. Glass crunched beneath their feet as they slammed into furniture.

“I made you,” Brock said. “I can unmake you.”

Ronan landed three devastating blows in rapid succession—stomach, throat, temple. Brock staggered but didn’t fall.

“You’re right,” Ronan rasped. “You created Reaper.”

He drove his knee into Brock’s midsection with brutal force.

“But I was Ronan first, you fucker.”

Something shifted in the battle. Brock’s eyes narrowed with calculated malice. He stopped trying to match Ronan’s strength and began fighting differently—targeting specific points on Ronan’s body, exploiting weaknesses only a handler would know.

When his fingers jabbed into a spot behind Ronan’s ear, Ronan collapsed to one knee with a strangled cry.

I forced myself to move through the swimming darkness at the edges of my vision. My legs felt disconnected from my body as I struggled to stand.

Brock kicked Ronan’s legs from under him, slamming him onto his back with sickening force. He pinned Ronan down with a knee to his chest .

“Anchor,” he spat, watching Ronan’s body convulse beneath him. “Vessel.”

“No!” I screamed. In my condition, the gun seemed miles away, but I couldn’t just give up.

I started crawling toward it. Blood dripped steadily from my head wound onto the floor, marking my path like morbid breadcrumbs.

Each movement sent lightning through my skull, but I dragged myself forward on trembling elbows.

“Marionette,” Brock continued, completely focused on destroying Ronan’s mind.

Ronan’s screams tore through me, fueling my desperate crawl. My vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. I focused only on the gun—getting closer, closer with each excruciating inch.

“Compliance,” Brock said, voice rising with triumph.

My fingers closed around cold metal at last. The weight of the gun was both foreign and reassuring. I rolled onto my back, raising the weapon with hands that shook violently.

Brock loomed over Ronan, speaking the words that tore his mind apart. I’d never shot anyone before. The gun trembled between my blood-slicked palms.

“Submit to me,” Brock continued. “Submit to me!”

Ronan’s body arched in agony, a sound escaping him that wasn’t human. His eyes found mine across the room—pleading, desperate.

“Submit to...” I squeezed the trigger.

The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space.

The recoil slammed the gun back into my face with stunning force.

Through ringing ears, I watched Brock jerk forward, shock spreading across his features as he touched the spot where the bullet entered his back.

Blood gushed down the expensive fabric, painting him crimson.

He turned toward me slowly, disbelief etched into every line of his face. The gun slipped from my numb fingers in shock, clattering to the floor as Brock fell to his knees.

The explosion of the gun still reverberated through my skull. My hands shook uncontrollably, the bruised flesh of my palms evidence of the recoil.

Strong arms encircled me, pulling me against a familiar chest. Ronan’s heartbeat drummed against my ear, fast but steady. Grounding me when everything else seemed to be spinning out of control.

Ronan’s fingers brushed blood-matted hair from my forehead with impossible tenderness. Behind us, Brock began to laugh—a wet, ragged sound despite the bullet wound leaking his life away.

The laugh started low, then built into something manic and chilling. Blood bubbled at the corner of Brock’s mouth as he dragged himself to a sitting position against the desk, one hand pressed to the wound in his back.

“You think this is over?” Brock wheezed, fumbling in his pocket.

His fingers closed around his phone, tapping at the screen with bloody fingerprints.

“The Director will not let you go. He will not let anybody go.” His eyes fixed on Ronan with feverish intensity.

“They’ll send others. Better than you. Newer models without your defects.

They’ll take her from you like I took Sofia. ”

A shrieking alarm erupted throughout the building. Red emergency lights pulsed from recessed fixtures in the ceiling, bathing everything in a crimson glow. My head throbbed violently with each wail of the siren.