Page 2 of Marked to Be Mine

When she glanced back, the familiar satisfaction of prey sensing the predator too late struck me. For just a fraction of a second, I considered extending this phase, drawing out the hunt. The thought formed unbidden, disturbing in its unprofessionalism.

Her breathing changed—audible even at this distance. Quick and shallow. The fight-or-flight response was activated. Her body was preparing for what her conscious mind still denied.

Ten meters.

The distance between us narrowed with each step. Concrete swallowed my footfalls while amplifying hers. The air down there tasted stale—exhaust fumes trapped in cold concrete. And something else. Fear. Her fear had a scent—sharp, metallic, almost sweet. I could easily get myself lost in it if I wasn’t careful enough.

Seven meters.

Maeve stopped abruptly, pulling something from her pocket. The phone screen illuminated her face, casting harsh shadows that accentuated the fear in her expression. Her fingers moved rapidly across the surface.

Four meters.

A faint smile touched my lips. I didn’t fight it. The sensation was… unfamiliar. When was the last time I smiled during an operation?

When was the last time I smiled at all?

The question appeared from nowhere, disrupting operational focus—a momentary glitch in my processing.

Three meters.

She spun suddenly, scanning the shadows, and froze. Our eyes locked across the distance. Recognition dawned in hers—not of me personally, but of what I represented. Death, approaching with measured steps.

Her hand plunged back into her pocket, withdrawing something that caught the light. Not a phone. A knife. Small but practical switchblade with a serrated edge. The file didn’t mention combat training, either. Was thereanythingthat filedidget accurately? Annoyance spiked through me. That would most likely require a stern conversation later on. Some things in my business would have to be changed.

For now, though, my pulse quickened. A flicker of…what? Not concern. Interest, perhaps.

I closed the distance in three steps.

Her knife slashed where I stood a fraction of a second ago. Amateur technique but determined execution. I pivoted, avoiding the blade with minimal movement, then capturedher wrist. One twist—not enough to break, just enough to send pain signals racing through nerve endings. The knife clattered on the concrete.

“Don’t,” I said, the word unnecessary but automatic. I expected her to scream. After all, that was what most humans instinctively did when facing danger, and she stood right before one. Much to my surprise, which didn’t happen often, no sound left her lips.

Instead, she tried to knee me. I blocked with my thigh, then swept her legs. She fell hard but scrambled up faster than I anticipated, backing away. Her eyes were wide with fear, but somehow, shestillmanaged to remain silent. It would be easy for her to yell to get attention, even in this isolated parking lot. But she didn’t. Likely didn’t want to draw too much attention.

I followed, unhurried. Allowing her the illusion of resistance. There was nowhere to go. The parking level stretched empty in all directions, after all. Her back hit a wall. Trapped.

Her eyes assessed me, moving from my face to my hands to potential weapons. She swallowed hard, but her gaze didn’t waver. I had to give credit where it was due—shewasbrave, even when cornered like this.

“Are you my contact?” she asked suddenly, catching me off guard.

I didn’t answer. Questions wasted time.

I silenced her with proximity, moving into her space. Personal. Intimate. My hand found her throat, fingerspositioning over carotid pressure points. Not crushing. Controlling.

But her words registered as unexpected. Contact? She expected someone. Just not me.

Her eyes changed, resignation replacing fear. “You are one of them, aren’t you?” Not a question. A statement.

Her hand flew toward my face, colliding with the rough contour of my cheek. I barely felt the impact, but it was enough to give her a moment of distraction to use in her favor. She lunged sideways, attempting to create distance. Pointless. I moved faster, re-establishing the choke hold.

When I locked eyes with her, something unexpected happened.

An impulse fired through me—foreign and unwelcome—the urge to slide my hand from her throat to her jaw. It wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t part of any protocol. My thumb brushed against her pulse point, feeling the rapid fluttering beneath warm skin, like a bird’s wings.

The freckle below her jawline. The defiant set of her mouth. The gold flecks in her dark eyes.

Her shallow breathing drew my attention to her lips. For one disorienting moment, I wondered about their texture. The thought was so alien, so unlike anything I had ever felt before, that it left me momentarily stunned.

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