Page 46 of Betray Me
“I don’t remember how to be normal,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Everything I know about connecting with people is tied to survival or manipulation. Even this conversation—part of me is cataloging your tells, looking for weaknesses to exploit.”
Max’s laugh is bitter but understanding. “You think I’m not doing the same thing? I’ve been trained since childhood to see relationships as transactions, people as assets to be leveraged.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “The difference is that tonight, for the first time, I don’t have to.”
The possibility he’s offering—connection without agenda, conversation without calculation—makes my chest tight with something that might be hope. When was the last time I talked to someone just to talk? When did I last feel genuine curiosity about another person’s thoughts rather than strategic interest in their secrets?
“Tell me something real,” I say suddenly. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”
His dark eyes study my face, searching for hidden motives. Finding none, his expression softens. “I used to have a dog. When I was seven. A golden retriever named Charlie.” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “He was the only thing in my life that loved me without conditions, without expecting performance or compliance. When my father found out I was getting ‘too attached,’ he had Charlie put down. Told me it was a lesson about the dangers of emotional vulnerability.”
The cruelty of it steals my breath. “God, Max.”
“Your turn,” he says, and there’s challenge in his voice. “Something real.”
I close my eyes, sifting through decades of carefully curated memories for something genuine. “I wanted to be a teacher. When I was little, before I understood what my family really was, I used to line up my dolls and teach them math and history. Ithought… I thought I could help other children learn to think for themselves.”
“What happened to that dream?”
“The same thing that happened to your dog.” I finish my whiskey in one burning gulp. “They taught me that helping others think for themselves was dangerous. That my value came from being useful to them, not from any inherent worth.”
The admission leaves me feeling raw, exposed. But Max doesn’t recoil or judge. Instead, he refills my glass with steady hands.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” he says quietly. “To be who we were supposed to be before they broke us.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. When was the last time someone offered me hope instead of expectation? When did anyone suggest that I might be worth saving rather than just useful?
The emotions I’ve been suppressing all day—terror, grief, rage, desperate loneliness—crash over me like a dam bursting. But underneath it all is something more dangerous: want. Not the calculated desire I’ve weaponized my entire life, but genuine attraction to this man who’s proven himself capable of sacrifice, of choosing righteousness over safety.
I set down my glass and move closer to him on the couch, close enough to see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “Max.”
His name comes out rougher than intended, thick with invitation. I see the moment he recognizes what I’m offering, the way his pupils dilate, and his breathing changes.
“Belle,” he warns, but his voice lacks conviction.
I lean forward, bringing my lips close to his ear. “I need to feel something other than empty. I need to remember what it’s like to want someone instead of just using them.”
My hand finds his thigh, fingers tracing patterns through the expensive fabric of his pants. He’s solid, warm, real—everything my life has lacked for so long. When I kiss his neck, he tastes like whiskey and safety and the possibility of being known instead of just needed.
“Please,” I whisper against his skin. “Help me feel human again.”
For a moment, he responds. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer as his mouth finds mine. The kiss is desperate, hungry, full of shared trauma and mutual understanding. I lose myself in the heat of it, in the way his fingers tangle in my hair, in the proof that someone wants me for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy or survival.
But then he pulls back, his hands gentle but firm as he creates distance between us.
“Belle, stop.”
The rejection hits like a physical blow. I reach for him again, confusion and hurt making my movements clumsy. “Did I do something wrong? I can be better, I can—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice is soft but firm as he catches my hands. “But this isn’t what you need right now.”
“How do you know what I need?” The words come out sharper than intended, defensive mechanisms engaging automatically.
“Because I did the same thing with Luna. Used sex as a way to avoid dealing with real emotions, real connections.” His grip on my hands tightens. “And it made me sick afterward. Made me feel like I was just perpetuating the cycle that created us.”
The comparison to Luna—to what he did to her—stops me cold. “I’m not Luna.”
“No, you’re not. You’re stronger in some ways, and more damaged in others. But right now, you’re vulnerable and traumatized and looking for a way to feel in control.” He studies my face with uncomfortable accuracy. “Sex gives you that illusion of control, doesn’t it? Makes you feel powerful instead of powerless.”
The insight cuts too close to the truth for comfort. “Maybe that’s exactly what I need.”
