Page 55 of Marked to Be Mine

Reaper. The thought of him sent a fresh wave of pain through me. Had he suffered like this? Had he fought againsthis conditioning, alone and terrified, with no one searching for him?

“Your brother died in that prison cell.” Brock straightened his already immaculate cuffs. “Blackout is our creation. Quite effective, wouldn’t you say? Just like Reaper was, before you… complicated things.”

The shock crystallized into rage, hot and blinding. I lunged forward against my restraints, metal cutting into my skin. I wanted to swear at him. I wanted to tell him he was wrong—that Reaper was a lot stronger than he gave him credit for. But saying that out loud would’ve only put him in more danger, and that was the last thing I needed right now. I couldn’t risk him getting pulled any deeper into this mess. Leaving him behind with Specter had been the right call—at least, I kept telling myself that. It would stay the right call as long as Specter didn’t betray me, as long as I could trust his word not to hand him over or worse.

My brother, though… he already seemed like he was too far gone. Still, there was some small comfort in knowing he was alive. That meant there was still a chance—maybe not for me, but for someone—to break through to him, to bring him back from whatever place Brock had pushed him into. Brock wouldn’t get rid of Xavier. That much was clear. My brother was way too valuable to him, too useful. So in a twisted way, that kept him safe—at least, as safe as anyone could be in a situation like this.

I wasn’t so lucky, though. I was completely and utterly fucked.

“What the hell did you do to them?” I snarled. “What are you doing to these men? What use do you have for them?” When he didn’t respond, my voice became an octave higher. “You’re using them to do your dirty work, aren’t you? Because you’re too much of a coward to do anything yourself!”

Brock observed my fury like a scientist noting the reaction of a lab specimen, but the momentary crack in his composure told me everything. Reaper’s resistance scared him.

“I think it’s time we had a proper conversation about the Marionette Project,” he said, regaining his composure. “You’ve been quite persistent in your investigation. I’m curious what you think you know.”

Tears burned hot tracks down my face as I stared at the door where Xavier had disappeared. No—not Xavier.Blackout. The word made my stomach twist.

“What did you do to him?” My voice broke, raw with grief and rage. I yanked against the restraints hard enough to feel skin break around my wrists. “What did you do to my brother?”

Brock’s footsteps made a deliberate rhythm as he circled my chair, an apex predator enjoying his captive’s distress.

“Quite fascinating, the process.” His tone shifted to something resembling a university lecture. “We begin with targeted pharmaceutical dissolution of identity markers. The subject experiences complete disorientation, followed by the breakdown of memory links.”

He gestured with elegance, his manicured hands sketching invisible diagrams in the air.

“Next comes sensory isolation combined with targeted electrical stimulation to key neural pathways. We essentially reset the brain to its factory settings.” A slight smile curved his lips at his own analogy. “Then rebuilding begins—chemical rewards for compliance, strategic pain application for resistance.”

His detachment made it worse, like he was describing engine maintenance, not the destruction of a human being. I thought of Reaper’s nightmares, the way he’d writhed in pain when certain words triggered his programming. The violation was obscene.

Another thought entered my mind—sending a chill down my spine. He would be telling me all of this for only one reason. He was sure I wouldn’t say a word. He’d either kill me or turn me into a machine like my brother.

“With your brother, we encountered unusual resilience.” For the first time, a hint of genuine admiration colored Brock’s words. “Most subjects break within the first month. Xavier required… specialized interventions.”

My stomach clenched at the thought of what “specialized interventions” might mean. Bile rose in my throat.

“We came to appreciate the familial connection,” Brock continued, watching my reaction with scientific interest. “When standard methods failed, we found that manipulating his memories of you proved quite effective. Reframing you as an enemy rather than a sister. It accelerated the breakdown considerably.”

The room spun around me. They had used me—my face, my voice, my relationship with Xavier—to break him. Theviolation felt intimate, personal in a way that made me want to claw my own skin off. I fought the urge to throw up. I just wantedonechance to get my hands on this piece of shit. Just a few seconds. I’d kill him with my bare hands.

“The Marionette Project has evolved significantly since Oblivion took over.”

I couldn’t hide my reaction. My head snapped up, eyes widening.

Brock’s smile broadened, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “An endless investigation, and you never uncovered our actual name?” His fingers traced along my restraints, caressing the metal almost lovingly. “All that digging, all those risks, and you missed the essential truth. I must admit, that’s…disappointing.”

He leaned closer, his cologne mixing with the underlying antiseptic smell of the room. I turned my face away, but he gripped my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

“Oblivion isn’t just an organization, Ms. Durham.” His pupils dilated slightly, a fervor creeping into his voice. “We’re reshaping the human potential itself.”

“By destroying people’s minds?” I spat, the taste of blood still sharp on my tongue.

“By removing limitations.” He released my face, straightening to adjust his immaculate cuffs. “The governments that began this research lacked vision. They abandoned it when test subjects died or went insane.” His voice hardened. “They called it inhumane. We call it necessary evolution.”

“We?” I managed through tears that wouldn’t stop. “Who exactly is ‘we’?”

A subtle shift crossed Brock’s face—something between reverence and fear flickering behind his composed expression. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“He prefers to remain… theoretical to those outside our inner circle.” The careful phrasing told me volumes. Even Brock, with all his apparent authority, feared this unnamed figure.

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