Page 63 of Betray Me
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It honestly is.”
As we walk away together—Max’s hand in mine, Luna and Erik flanking us like guards—I feel ready to fight for the future Max and I talked about.
Chapter 23: New Beginnings
Now
The morning sun catches the water like scattered diamonds as I lean against the sailboat’s railing, watching Max adjust the rigging with practiced ease. Nine months have passed since my parents’ conviction, nine months of rebuilding myself from the wreckage of everything I once thought I was. The guilty verdicts came down three weeks ago—Father got thirty-two years, Mother twenty-six. I should feel vindicated, but mostly I just feel empty where the anger used to live.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Max calls from where he’s securing the mainsail. The morning light catches the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and I’m struck, as I often am these days, by how naturally beautiful he looks when he’s not performing the role of privileged heir to a criminal empire.
“Just enjoying the quiet,” I lie, but he sees right through me. He always does now.
The boat rocks gently beneath us as he makes his way over, his movements fluid and confident. We’ve been doing this for weeks—borrowing boats from various Shark Bay workers, sailing out into the open water where the weight of our past feels less suffocating. Today’s vessel belongs to Jonah, one of the maintenance crew who’s worked at the university for decades. Max charmed him into lending it with promises of careful handling and a generous tip.
“Your parents can’t hurt you anymore,” Max says quietly, settling beside me. His shoulder brushes mine, solid and warm and reassuring. “They can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
I nod, but we both know it’s more complicated than that. The network my family helped build didn’t die with their convictions. If anything, the trials exposed how much deeper the corruption runs, how many powerful people are still out there, still operating from the shadows. Detective Harper calls it “cutting off tentacles while the head remains hidden.”
“I know.” I turn to face him, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead in the ocean breeze. “It’s just… strange. I spent so many years being their weapon, their perfect daughter, their spy. Now I’m just… Belle.”
“Just Belle is pretty amazing,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with unfamiliar warmth.
We’ve been dancing around this thing between us for months now—the attraction that sparked in federal safe houses and grew through shared testimony, through late nights processing trauma and trying to figure out who we are without our families’ influence. But something always held me back. Fear, maybe. Or the bone-deep knowledge that everything I’d ever known about love was transactional, conditional, designed to manipulate rather than heal.
But watching him now, seeing the way he looks at me like I’m something precious rather than useful, I feel that familiar wall cracking.
“Max,” I say, and his name comes out softer than intended.
He turns toward me, recognition flashing in his eyes. We’ve been here before—on the edge of something real, something that might genuinely matter. But this time, I’m the one reaching for him. This time, I trace my fingers on his cheek with devastating gentleness.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and I love him for always asking me that small but significant question. For making it my choice instead of an expectation.
“I’m sure.”
And with those three words, the carefully constructed wall between us dissolves.
Kissing Max is every kind of intimacy I’ve ever experienced. Gentle, chaste, coaxing rather than demanding. His lips are soft against mine, his body strong and warm as he pulls me to him. There’s no pretense or manipulation, no sense that either of us is giving anything in exchange for something else. There’s only raw, honest affection, his hands gentle on the small of my back, the feeling of belonging I haven’t had since childhood.
When we pull back, breathing hard, his smile is radiant.
“Make love to me,” I whisper, and his breath catches.
“Let’s go under cover,” he murmurs against my mouth.
There’s a narrow cabin below deck, barely large enough for the single mattress and sparse furnishings, but it still feels like privacy. Sunlight filters through the circular porthole as Max closes the hatch above us, providing light while also shielding us from the harsh realities of the world outside.
In this tiny room, on a borrowed sailboat, Max kisses me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. Like a gift he’s been waiting his whole life to receive. Like something too fragile for words.
His hands are everywhere, his mouth hot against my neck. I’ve never seen him so undone—so present in his own vulnerability. When he looks at me, I finally recognize what I’ve only read about: desire, yes, and affection, but something deeper. Something frightening and wonderful all at the same time.
“I want you,” I say, not recognizing my own voice. Not quite innocent, not quite broken.
When I reach for the zipper on his pants, he stops me, the strength of his hand an unexpected turn-on.
“You’ll get mine after I get yours.”
I shake my head. “No way. It’s my turn.”
