Page 65 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

I jolted awake, hand shooting under the pillow for a weapon that wasn’t there. My fingertips found only cool sheets. Wrong. Dangerous.

Panic slammed through me as I scanned unfamiliar walls. Weathered blue paint. Gauzy curtains. The rhythmic crash of waves mixed with the harsh cry of seagulls that sounded too much like warning sirens.

It took my mind a long moment to perceive everything that had happened and convince me that I wasn’t in immediate danger.

Colombia. Beach Cabana. Two days since we arrived.

Right . Not safe—just safer.

I pushed myself upright, wincing as my body registered its complaints. The gash at my temple throbbed less today, though the bandage needed changing. Bruises had faded from purple to a sickly yellow across my ribs. Progress.

My fingertips traced the edge of the bandage at my temple.

Glass shattering. The percussion of the explosion. Ronan’s body covering mine as debris rained down. And him taking my hand as we ran away.

“Why didn’t you run like I ordered you?” he had asked one night while we were on the run.

I had met his gaze, seeing the man beneath the assassin.

“Because you’re worth saving,” I had whispered.

The memory felt simultaneously distant and too close, like everything since S?o Paulo. Slipping across borders. Peru first. False papers. My hair was dyed blonde in cramped airport bathrooms. Night trains and back roads. Never sleeping more than three hours at a stretch.

Sunlight sliced through gaps in the wooden shutters, painting golden stripes across rumpled sheets where Ronan should have been. My hand slid across the linen, seeking his warmth, finding only cold emptiness.

My stomach dropped—an instinct from our time on the run.

I pushed myself upright too quickly, the room tilting as blood rushed from my head. I needed a moment to stabilize before I could think clearly. The silence suddenly felt wrong. Threatening. Where was he? Did something happen during the night? Did they find us?

I searched the room, registering the absence of his boots by the door. His backpack still leaned against the wall, but the holster that held his sidearm was empty.

“Ronan?” My voice came out scratchy, unused.

No answer.

My pulse hammered in my throat. Eight days of running. Eight days of looking over our shoulders. Of Ronan half-carrying me onto a ferry when blood loss made his skin pallid and cool, his voice still steady. “Almost there. Stay with me.”

Eight days wasn’t enough. They would still be hunting us.

My heart rate doubled as I swung my legs over the bed, ignoring the protest from my muscles. I grabbed the closest weapon—a ceramic lamp—and moved toward the window, staying to the side as Ronan had drilled into me. Never center yourself in any opening. Basic tactical principle.

I had learned a lot over these past few weeks—some things that would remain with me until the day I died. This was one of them.

I eased back the curtain just enough to peer outside, breath held, prepared for the worst.

Then I saw him.

Ronan sat at a weathered wooden table, back straight, shoulders set in that vigilant posture I’d come to recognize. His fingers rushed across a laptop keyboard, the blue light reflecting off his face in the morning sun.

The tight band of fear loosened around my chest. He was here. We were safe.

I set the lamp down, feeling foolish. I pulled on a loose shirt over my tank top and stepped onto the patio, bare feet silent against the warm boards.

Ronan didn’t turn, but his typing paused for a fraction of a second—acknowledgment.

He knew I was there. He always knew. I approached slowly, observing the details of him that still felt miraculous after everything we’d survived.

His dark hair was longer now, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

A healing wound peeked from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt where the bullet had grazed him during our escape.

“Morning,” I said, voice still rough with sleep. Now that I was beside him, I allowed my body to relax fully.

He looked up, eyes sweeping over my face like someone who memorized exit points and threat assessments. Dark circles shadowed the space beneath them. He hadn’t slept again, but his expression softened.

“There’s coffee,” he said.

Before I could respond, he handed me his mug, the ceramic still warm from his hands. This small attention—always giving me his coffee before I asked—hit me harder than it should have. These fragments of normalcy felt stolen, precious.

“You should have woken me,” I murmured, taking a sip.

“You needed the rest.”

“So do you,” I murmured, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he brought me closer, one hand reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered at my temple, inspecting my healing wound carefully.

I set the coffee down and sat on his lap, pressing my lips to his.

What began as comfort deepened into something hungry and desperate—a reminder that we were still alive, still together.

His hand found the uninjured curve of my waist, drawing me closer.

I tasted coffee and salt and him. When we parted, he kept me close, his forehead resting against mine.

“Any nightmares?” he asked, voice low.

“No. Not last night. ”

His thumb traced circles against my hip, a silent acknowledgment of progress. We stood together, looking out at the expanse of beach. The ocean glittered blue-green under the climbing sun, waves lapping gently at the shore. No footprints marred the sand. No signs of pursuit.

“Perimeter’s clear,” Ronan said, reading my thoughts. “Satellite phone is untraceable. We’re good for now. We can relax. Think through our next move.”

His gaze swept the horizon—automatic, constant. One hand remained near the weapon holstered at his hip, even as the other rested on my waist. Even if we were safe, it never hurt to be extra careful. Both Ronan and Xavier would agree on that.

I nodded toward the laptop. “What have you found?”

Ronan’s expression shifted, the momentary softness receding behind the mask of the operative. If I hadn’t been watching for it, I might have missed the minute tightening around his eyes.

“I’ve been tracking reports about Specter.”

The way he said the name—clipped, controlled—told me everything I needed to know before he spoke another word. I sank into the chair opposite him, fingers clutching the mug tighter. Whatever came next, I needed to be ready.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

Ronan’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “The compound’s security feeds went dark after we left,” he said. “But I received an encrypted data package at 0400 hours. One of Specter’s failsafes. ”

He turned the laptop so I could see the screen.

Grainy security footage showed Specter—our unexpected ally, the man who saved us both—surrounded by armed men in black tactical gear.

The timestamp matched our escape. In the final frame, smoke obscured most of the image, but Specter’s silhouette remained visible, hands raised as figures closed in.

“Is he...?” I couldn’t finish the question. My throat closed around the words.

“He’s still alive.” Ronan scrolled through lines of code and what appeared to be official communications, his expression unchanged but for a tightness around his mouth that I’d learned meant he was disturbed. “But he’s not with Oblivion. A security agency has him.”

The wind picked up suddenly, carrying the scent of salt and something rotting further down the beach. Paradise with edges.

“He knew this might happen,” Ronan continued, something like respect coloring his tone. “The data package contained everything—operational files on Oblivion, facility locations, personnel records, and financial trails. Everything you need to expose them.”

I slid off his lap into the chair opposite him, coffee forgotten. “He sacrificed himself for the information?”

“For us to escape so you could finish what you started,” Ronan corrected quietly.

My chest tightened as responsibility settled over me. Specter, with his sardonic commentary and encyclopedic knowledge, was now in custody because of us. Because of me .

My fingers curled into fists as I scanned the screen. Alongside the data were news headlines—sanitized versions of what really happened: “Gas Explosion in S?o Paulo Empty Home,” “Construction Accident Investigated,” “No Comment from Authorities.”

“Total media blackout,” I murmured. “They’re controlling the narrative.”

“They always do.”

The image of Specter surrounded by tactical teams burned behind my eyelids. I remembered him in that basement, bandaging Ronan’s wounds. The way he called me “journalist” with that hint of respect. How he seemed to know our next move before we did.

Everything that we had found—everything we had done—happened because of him. No words could ever express how grateful I was.

“They’ll extract everything from him,” I whispered, nausea rising. “Every safehouse, every contact. And Xavier.” The thought hit like a physical blow. “If they have Specter, what happens to Xavier?”

My hands began to shake, coffee sloshing over the rim of the mug onto my fingers. I didn’t feel the burn. “We need to find him before they move him or...”

“Maeve.” Ronan’s voice cut through my spiral, firm as a grip around my wrist. “That agency probably doesn’t know about Xavier’s connection to Oblivion yet. Specter compartmentalized information—standard operating procedure. And he won’t break easily, even if they try.”

“But we can’t just leave him there! Specter helped us, and now he’s...”

“Following the plan,” Ronan interrupted, his expression hardening. “His plan. He made a tactical choice. Our job is to ensure it wasn’t wasted.”

“To expose Oblivion,” I whispered.

“Yes. And to find your brother.”

I looked at the encrypted files glowing on the screen—thousands of documents, the product of Specter’s sacrifice. Lives reduced to data points and mission parameters. The storm on the horizon grew darker, but still distant.

“We have a starting point now.” Ronan’s eyes held mine, steady and certain in a way that made my heart clench. “We can find him.”

I uncurled my fingers, turning my hand to grasp his. “What’s our next move?”

I remained in the chair across from him, unable to process everything at once. A tear slid down my cheek—not for myself but for Xavier, lost somewhere in Oblivion’s labyrinth. For Specter, who gave us a chance by sacrificing his freedom.

The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of mangoes from the trees surrounding our temporary sanctuary. The sun climbed higher, but I felt cold despite the warmth.

“You want to tell me what you’re thinking?” Ronan asked, his voice gentler than his vigilant posture would suggest.

I straightened my spine, feeling the shift inside me. The grief remained, but beneath it rose something colder, more focused. I recognized it from my years chasing stories no one wanted told—a clarity that came only when everything was at stake.

“I’m thinking we need to expose them,” I said, my voice turning to steel. “Not just find Xavier, but burn the whole operation down. Just like you said before you wanted to send me to Istanbul. And we need to have it happen as soon as possible.”

Ronan nodded once, a sharp movement. His eyes tracked a fishing boat on the horizon, assessing it automatically for potential threats. “We can’t extract him directly. Oblivion’s too entrenched, too protected. But we can destabilize them from the outside.”

“By revealing everything they’ve tried to hide.” The realization settled into my bones. “That’s why Specter gave us that extra data. He knew exactly what I could do with it.”

“Your skills as a journalist are our best weapon now,” Ronan said, his gaze returning to me. “Critical intelligence in enemy hands is only valuable if properly utilized. You know how to decode it, contextualize it.”

I glanced at the laptop screen, mind already identifying key threads, mapping connections between Oblivion’s seemingly legitimate fronts and their black-budget operations. Planning release strategies that couldn’t be contained or controlled.

“It’s what I do,” I murmured, then looked at him. “But Specter, Xavier… the cost is already so high. What if it’s all for nothing? What if we can’t save him?”

Ronan’s jaw tightened, tendons standing out along his neck. When his eyes met mine, they contained something dangerous—a controlled rage that reminded me of what he was designed to be.

“It won’t be for nothing. Whatever happens, Oblivion will answer for what they’ve done.

To me. To Xavier. To all of us whose lives they stole.

This isn’t the end. We’re operational. Combat effective.

” A rare smile transformed his face, softening the hard edges.

“We need to be careful, stay together, and make them regret ever creating me.”

I rose from my chair and closed the distance between us. When I kissed him, it wasn’t gentle—it was a claim, a covenant. This beach sanctuary was temporary, but what we’d built together wasn’t.

“I love you,” I whispered against his mouth. “Not because you spared me that day in S?o Paulo, but because you’ve chosen me every day since—even when it broke you apart.”

His hands tightened on my waist, strong enough to bruise but carefully controlled. The contradiction that was Ronan—deadly determination with infinite tenderness.

“I was made to be a weapon,” he whispered against the hollow of my throat. “Now I’m yours.”

The ocean crashed against the shore, constant and relentless. We had the files. We had a direction. It wouldn’t be enough—not against an organization with Oblivion’s resources—but it was a start.

We’d survived gunfire, poison, and the systematic destruction of identity. Now we became ghosts ourselves, haunting the system that created us.

Somewhere in their labyrinth, Xavier waited. And we’d just found the key.