Page 8 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)
Maeve
We ran from the motel through a service exit, avoiding the main streets. Reaper led with silent confidence, moving through S?o Paulo’s backstreets like he’d memorized every alley and shadow. I stumbled after him, my legs heavy with exhaustion, lungs still burning from our escape.
The night air hung thick with humidity, carrying the distant scent of street food and exhaust fumes. Music thumped from somewhere—a nightclub or bar—the bass vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet.
After twenty minutes of zigzagging through the city, we approached a hulking structure in Brás—an abandoned textile factory with broken windows like jagged teeth against the night sky. The moon cast long shadows across its crumbling facade, graffiti visible even in the darkness.
The factory in front of us looked as if it had been untouched for the past few decades, yet Reaper moved with a certainty that suggested he had spent quite some time here.
My God. Was this where he had been staying?
Programming a man to turn into a machine rather than a human being was one thing, but to not give him even basic decency—to fulfill these most primal necessities…
The back of my eyes burned. They undoubtedly didn’t even see these men as men anymore. There were just means to an end.
“Is this where you’ve been staying?” I asked as Reaper found an entrance partially hidden by overgrown vegetation, even if I felt like I already knew the answer.
He didn’t answer, just held up a hand for silence as he scanned the area, his body tense and alert like a predator. After a moment, he motioned me inside.
The interior stretched vast and empty, moonlight slicing through shattered skylights.
My footsteps echoed on concrete floors stained with dark patches—chemical spills from decades past creating bizarre, twisted patterns.
Wind whispered through broken windows, creating a hollow, keening sound that raised goosebumps on my arms.
Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped steadily, the sound amplifying in the cavernous space. The air tasted of rust and decay.
Realization settled in my mind, quick and certain.
No one knew I was here with him. He could easily kill me here—he was skilled enough to do it—and no one would ever know what had happened to me.
I tensed at the thought, but chose to chase it away.
He saved my life. Surely he must have wanted to know the truth as much as I did.
Reaper navigated the factory’s maze-like interior without hesitation, making turns with such certainty that I wondered how many times he’d been here before. I cataloged every detail as we moved—exits, hiding spots, anything I could use if this alliance soured.
We reached what had once been an office in the back corner. Reaper unlocked a reinforced door I wouldn’t have noticed without him showing me.
Inside was bare-bones survival—a mattress on the floor, emergency supplies stacked in plastic containers, and a single lamp.
The walls were bare concrete, cold, and impersonal.
The temperature dropped at least ten degrees compared to outside, the chill seeping into my already aching bones.
My teeth began chattering, no matter how hard I tried to keep them under control.
Reaper secured the door, checked the single window, and then examined the entire space—movements so practiced they seemed automatic rather than conscious decisions. I noticed how he tapped each wall, listening for hollow spots. Paranoia or training? Probably both.
“That’s your idea of a safe house?” I finally broke the silence, positioning myself against the wall with clear sightlines to the door. My legs threatened to give out, but I tried to maintain composure. “It’s freezing in here.”
Reaper turned to me, his face unreadable in the harsh lamplight. “You claim to have information I need. Talk.”
My body betrayed me as I sank onto the edge of the mattress, exhaustion and hunger making me dizzy. When had I last eaten? The protein bar in my bag felt like days ago.
“I need water,” I said, hating how weak my voice sounded. “I can’t exactly give you the story of a lifetime when my tongue feels like sandpaper. ”
His expression hardened, ice-blue eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Goodness,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “Look, basic biology, okay? Dehydration equals brain fog. You want clear answers? Help me function first.”
For a moment, I thought he’d refuse. Then he muttered something under his breath—a curse that sounded particularly vile—and stalked to a side cabinet. He returned with a bottle of water and a packet of crackers, tossing them onto the mattress beside me.
“Drink. Eat. Then talk,” he ordered. He looked uncomfortably tense as he stood across me, his broad arms crossed over his chest. “My patience has limits.”
I bit back a sharp retort and instead gulped down half the bottle in desperate swallows, my body craving the hydration. The crackers were stale, but I devoured them anyway, feeling some clarity return with each bite.
Reaper watched me eat with unsettling intensity. He took the remaining crackers from the packet and arranged them in a perfect line on the desk beside him, edges aligned.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ventured, nodding toward his untouched row of crackers.
He shrugged, the movement barely perceptible. “I can function without food or sleep for extended periods when necessary.”
“Water, at least?” I held up my half-empty bottle.
Reaper stared at me, something flickering behind his eyes—confusion, perhaps—before giving a curt shake of his head. The gesture seemed strange, as if sharing resources was a foreign concept. He picked up one cracker, examined it, then placed it back in exact alignment with the others.
“So,” I said, wiping crumbs from my mouth, “how do you want to do this? Should I just start talking, or...”
“Why did you recognize me?” He cut me off, voice sharp. “How did you know my trigger response?”
I took a deep breath, the musty air filling my lungs. “It’s complicated. There’s context you need to...”
“Skip the context,” he snapped. “Answer the question.”
“Fine,” I said, irritation flaring. “The short version? I think the same people who took my brother took you too. They wiped your memories and turned you into their slave.”
Something dangerous flashed across his face. “I’m nobody’s slave.”
“Then tell me your mother’s name.”
His jaw clenched. “That’s irrelevant.”
“What about your hometown? First girlfriend? Favorite food growing up?” I pressed, watching his expression carefully.
“Can you tell me any of that?” I didn’t even wait for him to respond, because I knew he wouldn’t.
“You can. Because they’ve taken every single aspect of your personality and erased it to enslave you to carry out whatever dirty missions they have in mind. ”
Reaper lunged forward suddenly, stopping just inches from my face. “You’re stalling.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I’m proving a point. ”
A tense silence stretched between us. The drip of water somewhere in the factory marked each second. I could practically see the patience drain from his eyes.
“My brother,” I finally said, “disappeared from prison six months ago.”
Reaper stepped back, watching me with cold calculation. “Prison for what?”
“Does it matter? The charges were bullshit.” I took another sip of water to hide the tremor in my voice. “Xavier was ex-military, working security gigs that got progressively shadier. Then suddenly he got paranoid, checking for bugs, and started speaking in code.”
Reaper didn’t say a word, though I had a strong feeling the two of them shared many traits.
“Then he was arrested on fabricated charges, thrown into max security, and three weeks later, I’m told he died of an aneurysm.
” I laughed, the sound bitter even to my own ears.
My eyes burned all over again. I could still clearly recall the phone call when they broke the news to me.
I refused to believe it back then, and I refused to believe it now.
“They cremated him before I could see the body. ‘Administrative error,’ they said.”
Reaper remained perfectly still, as if he was hanging onto every word I said.
I sighed, wiping my eyes to prevent the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
“So I started digging. My job, thankfully, had given me many contacts, and I utilized every single one. I called in favors, bribed guards, and did whatever it took. That’s when someone sent me coordinates to an abandoned facility outside Detroit. ”
“Someone sent you?” Reaper’s voice sharpened. “ Who ?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Anonymous tip.”
His face hardened with suspicion. “Convenient.”
“Yeah, too convenient,” I agreed, surprising him.
“Like someone wanted me to find what was there. But I was desperate, so I went.” Back then, there was no way of telling whether it was a setup or a chance to discover something.
But I had no other leads, so I decided to risk it all.
Xavier would undoubtedly be mad at me, but I wouldn’t give up until I found him.
“And found what, exactly?”
I hesitated, wondering how much to reveal. But I needed him to believe me.
“Files. Hidden in an air vent. About some fucked-up program creating assassins through mind control and memory wipes.” I watched his face carefully.
Reaper’s hand twitched at his side. “This isn’t...”
A sudden crash from somewhere in the factory cut him off. We both froze. Reaper moved to the door in complete silence, drawing his weapon. He listened for several seconds, then relaxed marginally.
“Old buildings make noise,” he said, but kept his hand on his gun. “Continue.”
The interruption had set my nerves on edge again. “The files mentioned the Marionette Project.”
“Marionette?” He frowned, testing the word.