Page 53 of Marked to Be Mine

His body moving against mine as he slid himself deep inside me. His hungry kisses that saturated my skin, yearning for more. The peace I felt afterward. Then, the realization that something was wrong. Reaper’s burning skin under my palm.His breath shallow and uneven as the poison spread through his veins.

“Keep him alive,” I’d told Specter, my voice breaking as I’d looked back at Reaper one last time. I was more than aware it may very well be the last time I see him altogether, but I hoped we’d somehow find our way back to each other. We had to. Things couldn’t end this way.

The weight of the syringe in my hand before I’d plunged it into my arm—Specter’s “protection” burning through my bloodstream.

The cramped service corridor Specter had directed me through, every shadow making me think of Reaper moving silently through darkness.

Café Bella. The bitter coffee that had tasted off, but I’d been too focused on scanning the crowd to care.

Then nothing.

I never even saw them coming. Professional. Too professional. They’d known exactly where I’d be, which meant either Specter had sold me out or someone had been tracking me before him. Neither option was comforting, but I wanted to lean toward the second option. At least then I’d know Reaper was still alive—or, at the very least, had a shot at staying alive.

Washe even alive? Had Specter remained by his side? The thought of him dying alone while I walked straight into a trap made me physically ill. The man who’d fought his own programming to protect me, who’d looked at me with recognition breaking through years of conditioning—left alone to die.

Focus, Maeve.

I forced my attention to my surroundings. The room was perhaps fifteen square feet. Concrete walls showed water stains near the ceiling—underground, then. Two reinforced steel doors broke up the monotony of gray, one directly ahead, one to my left. No windows. Three visible cameras mounted in the corners, their red lights blinking steadily, watching me.

The chair I sat in was metal, bolted to the floor. My restraints were professional-grade—thick padded cuffs that wouldn’t leave marks but were impossible to slip. They’d secured my ankles, wrists, and a band across my midsection. Whoever had applied them knew what they were doing—the same people who’d stripped Reaper of his humanity, who’d turned him into a weapon.

My headache intensified as I tried to think clearly. Was this the aftereffect of whatever they’d drugged me with at the café? Or was it Specter’s counteragent fighting against it? Would it work on any other drug apart from the conditioning one? My heart pounded too loudly, its rhythm uneven and jarring in my ears.

The chill in the room seeped into my bones. I was still wearing the clothes I’d left in—the borrowed shirt that still smelled faintly of Reaper’s safehouse—but they’d taken my jacket and shoes. No chance of hidden weapons or tools.

This room was designed for one purpose: to break people. The perfect acoustics made every sound echo slightly. I could practically hear my heart drumming inside my chest. The lighting cast harsh shadows that played tricks on the eyes.Even the temperature—cold enough to be uncomfortable but not extreme enough to distract—was deliberate. The same calculated cruelty they’d used on Reaper.On Xavier.

I tried to slow my breathing, to find some center of calm. Xavier was here somewhere. That was what mattered. That was why I’d come. If I was inside their facility, I was one step closer to finding him. I just had to survive whatever came next—for him, for Reaper, for myself.

The silence was broken by a mechanical click. The door in front of me unlocked with a heavy clank, the sound reverberating through the sterile space. Metal scraped against metal as the mechanism turned.

The heavy door swung open with calculated slowness, a theatrical entrance that made my skin crawl. Framed in the doorway stood a man who could only be Brock, his silhouette sharp against the hallway light. He stepped inside with two guards flanking him—perfect mirror images of each other in tactical gear, their expressions blank canvases. The same emptiness I’d glimpsed behind Reaper’s eyes when his programming took over.

Brock wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than six months of my salary, tailored to accentuate his lean frame without a single crease out of place. His shoes gleamed under the fluorescent lights, Italian leather that clicked against the concrete. The platinum watch peeking from beneath his cuff was a Patek Philippe—the kind worn by men who bought yachts as afterthoughts. His manicured nails and clean haircut completed the image of corporate perfection,but the rigid posture beneath the civilian clothing screamed military background.

“Ms. Durham.” His voice filled the room with practiced warmth that never reached his eyes. “I see you’ve had time to appreciate our accommodations.”

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but the rational part of my mind reminded me that pissing this man off would be the worst option now that I was tied up like this, unable to move. He pulled up a metal chair with deliberate slowness, placing it directly across from me. The legs scraped across the concrete, an unpleasant sound that made my teeth clench. He positioned himself exactly at my eye level—not higher to intimidate, not lower to seem unthreatening. Equal height. A psychological move designed to create false parity.

“I apologize for the lack of comfort.” A smile flickered across his face, thin and mechanical. “This is a temporary location, you understand.”

The implication in those words sent ice through my veins. Temporary. Something worse waited elsewhere. The same “something worse” that had broken Reaper.

“Where’s Xavier?” I demanded, my voice steadier than I expected. “You said if I came willingly, I’d see him. That was our deal. I want to see my brother.”

I watched the guards while speaking, noting how they never blinked, positioned at angles that covered every corner of the room. They might as well have been machines for all the humanity they displayed. Had Reaper looked like this once? Empty vessel waiting for commands?

Brock’s smile widened slightly, revealing teeth too white and too perfect. “I’m a man of my word, Ms. Durham. Always.” The statement carried a weight beneath it, a current of threat wrapped in civility.

His right hand smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his pants, the movement drawing attention to a flash of something metal inside his jacket. A weapon, certainly, but worn more like an accessory than a tool.

Throughout our exchange, his eyes never left my face. He studied me with clinical interest, the way scientists observe bacteria under microscopes—fascinated, but completely detached from the subject’s existence as a living thing.

“You don’t believe me.” He sounded almost pleased by this. “Fair enough. Trust is earned, isn’t it? Though your Reaper seemed to earn yours rather quickly.” His eyes glinted with calculated malice. “Fascinating how emotional attachment develops even in high-stress environments. Some of our scientists are already working on…removing that glitch. Or using it to our advantage. Who knows? Perhaps something good can come out of this mess you and Reaper have created.”

My stomach twisted at Reaper’s name on his lips. What did he know about us? Had he been watching all along?

Brock lifted two fingers in a small, casual gesture. My heart hammered against my ribs as the second door began to open. I steeled myself for another video manipulation, another lie.

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