Page 1 of Betrayed

BETRAYED

Connor:

It started as a lie.

I found the letter in my cellmate’s trash—his little sister reaching out, just wanting a connection.Imissed my own sister, soIwrote back, pretending to be him.Justone letter.Onelie.

ButIcouldn’t stop.

By the timeIgot out,Ionly meant to give her one good memory—proof her "brother" was doing okay.ButSunnywasn’t whatIexpected.Shewas sunshine in human form… and theWolfin me roared that she was mine.

NowI’mtrapped between a lieInever meant to tell… and a mateIcan’t walk away from.

Sunny:

For years,Iwrote letters to the brotherIbarely remembered—until the day he finally wrote back.Hewas kind.Thoughtful.EverythingIneeded.

When he got out,Ibegged him to stay with me.Butnow that he’s here, nothing feels right… except the wayIfeel whenIlook at him.

Because he’s not really my brother.

And the truth?Itshatters me.

Worse, the realKaneis out—and he’s not just a liar.He’sa killer.Andhe’s coming for me.

I just hopeIsurvive the fallout… of beingBetrayed.

1

CONNOR

The lights flash on at six am—same time as always butI’vebeen awake since five.I’msitting on the side of my bunk, blinking in the overhead fluorescents that bathe my cell in harsh white light.

It’s just another day in prison.

Across from meIsee my image in the flat, scratched metal plate that serves as a kind of mirror welded to the toilet/sink combo.Atall man with pale gray eyes and longish dark brown hair stares back.Theyshave your head when you first come in, butI’vehad three long years to grow it back, soIdid because why the fuck not?

There’s an ugly scar from my left eyebrow down to my left cheekbone, courtesy of another inmate who had a box cutter with a blade that had been dipped in silver.Howhe smuggled it in,Idon’t fucking know but it was damn effective—he barely missed my eye.Silverwounds don’t heal cleanly for aWere, soI’mstuck with the scar for life.

The man staring back at me is unrecognizable as the one who first came toBriarcliffMaximumCorrectional.Prisonhardens you.It’snot just the tattoos that mark you as someone who’s spent time on the inside.It’sthe wary, dangerous look in your eyes—the same expression a cornered wolf gets right before it rips out someone’s throat.

It’s hard to see myself like this, butIhave to be honest.Thisis me now.Nobodylooking at the brooding, scarred, tattooed man in the mirror would mistake me for the heir to theLowellfortune.Buthere we are.

My private introspection is interrupted by the clomp of the guard’s boots and the jingle of keys as, one by one, the cells are opened.Ihear the groans and grunts and angry mumbling of the fifty other men inCellblockC—the maximum security block forRogueAlphas—as they start to wake up and make their way through another day.

But it’s not really just another day—not for me.Forme, today is the last day in this hellhole.Thelast timeI’llstand in line at the chow hall and get a tray filled with the disgusting, inedible slop that passes for food here.Meatrock, anyone?Orhow about a nice slice of nutri-loaf?

It’s the last timeI’llwork in the prison woodworking shop, the last timeI’llgo out to the yard and lift, trying to avoid the inevitable fights that always break out because some stupid fucker has a beef with some other stupid fucker and they think they have to throw hands to settle it.

It’s the last timeI’lltake a shower with twenty other men, watching my back the whole time.Thelast timeI’llhave to sleep with one eye open—though honestly, sinceIgot moved to a two-man cell that locks at night, that part has been a little better.

Not because my cell mate is a saint—quite the opposite.I’mpretty sure thatKaneBlackis a sociopath—which isn’t unusual for aRogueAlpha.Wegot into it exactly once whenIfirst moved in here.Theminute he found outIcan hold my own, he left me alone, which suits me fucking fine.

We don’t even talk, my cellmate and me andIcertainly wouldn’t call us “friends” but without even knowing it,Kanehas kept me going for the past two years—or at least, his connections have.

Speaking of my bunkie, he’s still snoring in the upper bunk, dead to the world.Heprefers to sleep through breakfast and then steal several other inmates’ lunches to make up his calorie deficit later.He’sone of the few people in here who doesn’t have a job—he’s the head of a trafficking ring in the outside world and he still has enough pull to keep his prison canteen card full.He’snot hurting for money, so why work?

To be clear,I’mnot hurting for money either, butIcouldn’t hang around the cellblock all day—I’dgo fucking crazy.SoI’vealways had a job in prison.Firstit was the kitchen—you have to get up at 4am to start your shift in there.Andthen, onceIgot into the two-man cell,Imoved to the woodworking shop soIcould sleep in.

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