Page 30 of Marked to Be Mine


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I listened to the drones, suddenly aware their movement pattern had changed. “Wait—are they getting farther apart? The search pattern seems…”

“Manipulated,” Reaper finished. “Someone’s altering the search grid. Pushing them away from us.”

“You mean… someone’s helping us? Who would...”

Thunder cracked overhead—a deafening boom that shook the warehouse to its foundations. I jumped, my head smacking against Reaper’s chin in the darkness of our hideaway.

“Sorry,” I whispered, my nerves frayed beyond recognition.

His hands found my shoulders in the blackness, steadying me. “Breathe,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “The thunder is a gift.”

I tried to control my trembling as another thunderclap resounded above us. “How is this a gift?”

“Rain disrupts thermal imaging. Thunder masks sound. Lightning creates false readings.” His voice remained calm, factual. “We couldn’t have planned a better cover.”

The realization spread through me like warmth. Nature had given us what technology couldn’t—a shield. The storm had come at the perfect moment, as if some cosmic force haddecided we deserved a chance. And I had every intention of utilizing it.

“All we need to do is wait a little longer,” he said, his breath warm against my hair. “The drones will be recalled if the lightning intensifies.”

I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me in the darkness. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.” His hand moved tentatively to my back, a gesture that seemed unpracticed. “They’ll retreat to protect their equipment.”

“And the ground teams?”

“Standard protocol would have them retreat to vehicles during electrical storms. Too much risk with the equipment they carry.”

My muscles ached from the sustained tension of our escape. My lungs still burned from running. The adrenaline that had kept me moving was ebbing away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The events of the past days—the assassin in República Square, the revelation about my brother, the narrow escapes—crashed over me like the storm outside.

I leaned forward without thinking, my forehead coming to rest against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath my skin—so controlled compared to my own racing pulse.

For a moment, he held perfectly still, as if my gesture had short-circuited his programming. Then, in a movement that seemed to surprise us both, his arms encircled me. Not the calculated protective stance of an operative, but something almost tender.

“I’m so tired,” I admitted, the words muffled against his shirt. The strength that had carried me through interrogating a killer, fleeing through sewers, and outrunning tactical teams abandoned me in this moment of stillness.

Thunder boomed again, rattling the surrounding shelves. I burrowed deeper into his embrace, seeking refuge not just from our pursuers but from the crushing weight of uncertainty. From the fear that my brother might already be dead. From the knowledge that the man holding me had been sent to kill me.

To my surprise, Reaper’s arms tightened. His chin rested atop my hair. The gesture felt protective, almost possessive. Despite him not saying a word, I felt…safe.

It was absurd—I was in a closet with a programmed killer while heavily armed operatives hunted us. “Safe” was the last word that should apply. And yet, pressed against him in the darkness, I felt something I hadn’t experienced since Xavier disappeared—the certainty that I wasn’t fighting alone anymore.

Rain pounded against the roof, drumming a chaotic rhythm that matched my thoughts. Lightning flashed through the slats in the door, illuminating fragments of his face—jaw tense, eyes watchful. The unrelenting vigilance of a predator.

“Why did you take that hit for me?” I whispered. “The injection.”

His arms tightened fractionally. “The same reason you didn’t run from me when you had the chance.”

“And what reason is that?” I pressed, needing to hear him say it.

Neither of us seemed ready to name those reasons.

The storm intensified outside, rain hammering against metal like thousands of tiny fists. I allowed my eyes to close, just for a moment, sinking into the unexpected shelter of his embrace. His breathing remained measured, controlled, but there was something almost tender in the way his thumb traced small circles against my shoulder blade.

“We have time,” he said, his voice a low rumble I felt rather than heard. “The storm will cover us.”

“For now,” I whispered. “But when it passes?”

“Then we move.”