Page 100 of Betray Me
“Make love to me,” I whisper, the words coming easier than they ever have before.
His answer is a kiss that tastes like relief and promises and the radical idea that we might undoubtedly have a future worth fighting for. Our bodies tangle in the duvet, limbs brushing gently as he carefully removes our uniforms. Something has shifted between us, our touch now a question and an answer all at once.
“I love you,” he breathes, filling me with the unspoken language of physicality. You are precious. Your safety is my highest priority. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.
His thickness stretches me perfectly, claiming me again and again while I fall apart in his arms. Each stroke carriesdeeper passion than it should, his hips driving into mine with devastating force, but the intensity is diluted with something new and fragile: the sense that together, we’re building something stronger than ourselves.
“Max,” I moan, digging my nails into his back and holding him as tight as I can. If our lives truly revolve around patterns of catastrophe, then I want to drown out the past with sounds of our future.
He thrusts again, deep and hard, his entire body moving in rhythm with mine. There’s no end or beginning to us, just the perfect unity I want to carry with me forever.
“Come for me,” he whispers in my ear. “Let go.”
And so I do—my body losing control in an arc of feeling that obliterates the past, leaves no room for questions or terror or uncertainty. I’m liquid and glowing, transmuted by the trust between us. As I shatter, he follows—our pleasure colliding like waves battering stone, driving us to perfection beyond comprehension.
Afterward, we tangle together on the tangled duvet, breaths slowing in each other’s arms. Max smells like sex and sweat and home, a sensation I never want to forget. His eyes remain fixed on my face, tracking my expressions with focused attention.
“What do you think happens now?” I ask quietly.
“Now we help Selena expose The Architect. We make sure no other children suffer what we suffered.” His voice carries certainty that wraps around me like armor. “We build something better from the ashes.”
As sleep finally claims me, I dream of a future where Luna and Erik plan their wedding without looking over their shoulders. Where Max and I wake up choosing each other instead of survival. Where children like we once were grow up protected instead of exploited, loved instead of used.
It’s a beautiful dream, one I hold close as exhaustion pulls me under. But even as warmth and safety cocoon me in this room, something cold whispers at the edges of my consciousness. The Architect is still out there, still planning, still pulling strings we haven’t even discovered yet.
And something tells me they’ve been waiting for exactly this moment—when we finally felt safe enough to let our guard down.
Epilogue: Fragments of Memory
The soft clicking of keyboards fills Professor Austin’s computer science classroom as afternoon sunlight streams through the tall Gothic windows, casting everything in golden light that should feel peaceful but somehow doesn’t. One week has passed since Dominic’s death on the cliffs, one week of pretending to be normal students attending normal classes while secretly planning the downfall of a network that’s shaped our entire lives.
I sit in my usual spot—third row, center—my laptop open to what appears to be coding exercises but is actually a secure document where I’ve been cataloging everything we’ve learned about The Architect’s operations. The familiar weight of academic performance settles around me like a comfortable mask, and for brief moments, I can almost believe we’re just Belle Gallagher and Max Brooks, college students worrying about grades instead of survival.
“The beauty of recursive functions,” Professor Austin explains, his voice carrying the enthusiasm of someone genuinely passionate about his subject, “is that they solve complex problems by breaking them into smaller, identical pieces. Each iteration brings us closer to the solution.”
I nod along with the appropriate academic interest, but my attention keeps drifting toward the window where the eastern cliffs are visible in the distance. The same cliffs where Selena saved our lives, where Dominic’s blood still stains the rocks despite the cleaning crews she sent. The same cliffs where Luna and Erik once found stolen moments of genuine affection amidst all the performance and manipulation.
Max sits beside me, his presence warm and reassuring as he engages with the lesson. His dark hair catches the afternoon light, and when he glances over with that small smile that’s become my anchor, I feel something dangerously close to contentment. We’ve been sleeping deeply these past few nights—real sleep, not the fitful half-consciousness of people constantly listening for threats. Selena’s protection has given us something we never thought possible: peace.
Luna occupies her favorite spot by the window, her emerald eyes focused on her screen but occasionally drifting toward Erik, who sits next to her. They’ve found something real amidst all the artificial connections our families forced on us.
“Miss Gallagher,” Professor Austin’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. “Perhaps you could walk us through the logic of your recursive solution?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring out the window for several minutes without processing anything about the assignment. Heat crawls up my neck as I focus on my screen, but the code swimming before my eyes suddenly feels meaningless compared to the view beyond the glass.
Those cliffs. Something about the way the sunlight hits the rocks, the angle of the shadows falling across the grass…
Flash.
Darkness. The scent of expensive perfume and something metallic that makes my stomach turn. Voices arguing in hushed tones while I stand frozen, my body not responding to my mind’s desperate commands to move, to run, to do anything other than witness what’s unfolding before me.
Janet Wilson lies on the ground, her dress torn and stained with something dark. Her face is pale in the moonlight, eyes staring sightlessly at the stars above. She’s so young.Wasso young.
I’m standing over her body, my dress splattered with evidence I don’t remember acquiring. My parents flank me like guards, Father’s hand heavy on my shoulder while Mother’s manicured fingers grip my other arm.
“This is what happens,” Father says, his voice carrying the cold authority I’ve learned to fear, “when daughters forget their place in the natural order.”
On the other side of Janet’s body, Sebastian and Eleanor Queen observe with the clinical detachment of scientists examining a specimen. Sebastian’s pale eyes hold no emotion as he studies my face, cataloging my reaction for future reference. Eleanor’s perfect composure never wavers, even in the presence of death.
