Page 9 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

“French for ‘puppet,’” I explained. “It was a Cold War experiment. Taking trained operatives and breaking them down until they were perfect, obedient killing machines.” The first time I read the files, I thought it was nonsense.

Hell, I even suspected someone was fucking with me.

I contemplated throwing the files away, but something urged me to keep them.

Urged me to keep on looking. It was hard to believe one of the experiments stood right before me.

“This is ridiculous,” Reaper said, but doubt flickered across his face. He absentmindedly touched his temple, where I’d seen him experience pain before.

“The files led me to Latvia,” I continued, watching him.

“I followed leads across Eastern Europe, but kept hitting dead ends. I was about to give up when someone approached me in Riga.” Back then, I was ready to give up.

I was burning through my savings with no leads, and I began wondering when I would be forced to stop chasing this crazy theory.

Still, something prompted me to keep going.

“I was in this dive bar, drowning my frustration in cheap vodka, when someone slid a burner phone across my table. A text message saying they wanted to help me find Xavier.”

“And you just trusted this person?” Reaper scoffed. “That’s spectacularly stupid.”

“You’ve never been desperate enough to do something stupid?

” I shot back. “I’m a journalist—I verify everything.

And everything this informant told me had checked out that far, no matter how difficult it was to follow their leads.

” I shook my head, pressing the bridge of my nose between my fingers.

It was hard to believe I was finally saying these words out loud.

“Agents like you are a product of the modern Marionette Project. You were probably fallen special forces or intelligence, or hardened criminals before they got to you. Your memories are systematically erased and replaced after each mission. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

” Reaper looked like he wanted to say something, but I was left with cold silence.

It didn’t surprise me. He was a shell of a man; unsure what was real and what wasn’t.

Still, I could tell he wanted to deny it all.

“Think about it,” I urged. “What’s your earliest memory? What did you do last month? Where were you stationed before S?o Paulo?”

Reaper’s breathing changed subtly, becoming more controlled. He was fighting something internal.

“Let me guess,” I said quietly. “Headaches? Nosebleeds? Moments where things don’t quite make sense? Blackouts that you can’t fully recall?”

His eyes snapped to mine. “How do you...”

“Because that happens when your brain fights the programming,” I explained. “The informant said your mind tries to recover what’s been erased.”

“Enough!” Reaper slammed his fist against the desk, scattering his perfectly aligned crackers. The sudden outburst startled even him; he stared at the mess, momentarily confused.

“Then tell me,” I challenged, heart racing but voice steady. “Tell me about your childhood. Where did you grow up?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“What was your mother’s name?” I pressed, cutting him off. I needed this to sink into his mind. I needed him to know I was telling the truth. “Your first job? Did you have pets growing up? ”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “We don’t all carry around scrapbooks of our past.”

“But you should remember something,” I insisted, forcing myself to hold his gaze despite his proximity. “Everyone has memories—birthdays, holidays, first day of school. Give me anything you remember. Anything at all.”

Reaper’s hand unconsciously went to his chest, rubbing it. “This is manipulation. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Twist facts to fit your narrative?”

“I have proof,” I said, heart pounding. This was my gamble.

His eyes narrowed. “What proof?”

“The informant gave me something. A test.” I took a deep breath. “Valkyrie. Umbrella.”

The effect was immediate. Reaper staggered back, one hand flying to his temple. His face contorted in pain, eyes squeezing shut as if fighting something inside his head. A thin trickle of blood appeared from his nostril.

“What… did you say?” he grunted through gritted teeth.

“Trigger words,” I explained, staying where I was. “They use them during conditioning. The informant said they would cause a neurological response you couldn’t control.”

Reaper wiped the blood with the back of his hand, eyes accusing. “Parlor tricks. I’ve been fighting for days with minimal rest.”

“Really? Specific words make you bleed?” I challenged. “It happened in the parking lot earlier. When’s the last time that happened from exhaustion?”

He advanced on me, fury radiating from him. “You’re trying to compromise me... ”

“If I wanted to compromise you,” I countered, meeting his gaze, “I would have used the full sequence. I only know fragments.”

“You know what I think?” He loomed over me, voice dangerously soft. “I think you’re lying. About everything. The brother. The informant. All of it.”

Something inside me snapped.

“You think I’d make this up?” I shoved against his chest, surprising us both.

“You think I enjoy being hunted across continents? Having assassins break into my motel room? I’m here because my brother is suffering just like you are!

” tears rushed to my eyes. This was a stupid idea; I should have known.

After our initial contact, I had been foolishly confident that I would be able to reach him, even though I knew programming like this took months, if not years.

One encounter wouldn’t be enough to convince him I was telling the truth.

“I’m trying to fucking help you! You can fight it all you want, but I know you know something isn’t adding up! ”

Reaper grabbed my wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough to stop me. We stood frozen for a moment, his eyes searching mine. Something inside me cracked—weeks of fear, frustration, and desperate hope.

“My brother is real.” Each word emerged with painful clarity. “I’ve been shot at, threatened, nearly killed—all to find him. If you think what I’m saying is nonsense,” I challenged quietly, “this shouldn’t affect you.” I took a deep breath and spoke clearly, “Mention. Clockwork.”

The reaction was catastrophic. Reaper’s body went rigid, his back arching as if struck by electricity. A guttural sound tore from his throat—not quite a scream, but something primal and agonized. Both hands clutched his head as blood streamed from both nostrils now.

He dropped to his knees, eyes unfocused and glassy. “What… are you… doing… to me?” Each word seemed to cost him tremendous effort.

Horror washed through me as I watched him suffer. This was worse than I’d expected. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know it would be this bad. I’m just showing you the truth.”

Reaper tried to rise, muscles straining. For a moment, he managed to get one foot under him, swaying unsteadily. His eyes found mine, filled with something between fury and terror.

“Mae...” he started to say, but couldn’t finish. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Reaper!” I rushed forward, dropping to my knees beside his unconscious form. His pulse hammered beneath my fingers—too fast, but strong. Blood still trickled from his nose, bright red against his pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, grabbing a cloth from one of the supply containers to wipe the blood from his face. “But you needed to see.”

With shaking hands, I dragged the mattress closer to where he lay. I couldn’t move him—he was too heavy—but I could make him more comfortable. I arranged his limbs into a less awkward position, then dampened part of the cloth with water .

As I pressed the cool cloth to his forehead, I studied his face—relaxed now in unconsciousness, younger somehow, the hard lines of the assassin softened. Who was he before all this? What life had they stolen from him?

There was no way to tell whether he would believe me once he woke up, much less if he would try to kill me again.

This was my one shot—and the rationale in my mind was shouting at me to run.

To leave all of this behind and keep looking for my brother.

But, no matter how much the logical part of my head told me to do so, my body refused to budge.

My heart refused to let go. I decided to stay here with him, and deal with the consequences as they came.

Besides, this could be my only chance to learn more.

I hesitated, then carefully searched his pockets.

In his pockets was a phone—military grade, probably encrypted.

And underneath it, something unexpected: a small, worn poker chip.

Not even a valuable one—just a basic red chip like you’d find in any casino.

The incongruity of it stopped me cold. Why would a mind-controlled assassin carry something so ordinary, so… personal?

I turned it over in my fingers, wondering.

“Who are you?” I whispered to his unconscious form. “What’s your real name, Reaper?”