Page 82 of Betray Me
When he breaks, a roar muffled against my hair, I stay close, hold onto him, chase the orgasm that lurks just beyond reach. It comes like a storm, an undeniable thing that was always going to happen regardless of my intentions. Tenses my entire body, wrings a moan from deep in my chest, wraps me in the tightest hug of my life.
It lasts forever, and is not long enough. We are always there, together, a light and a reprieve and a relief.
We are together.
Afterwards, sweat-damp, tangled, overheated, I press my forehead to his shoulder and breathe his scent like it’s holy air, like he is a precious commodity I have not known before.
“We will survive this,” I vow softly.
“We will, or no one will,” he promises back.
And in that moment, I believe him. I understand that whatever happens to our bodies, our souls—or whatever remains when we discard the trappings of morality and legality and respectability—will endure beyond the reach of power-hungry shadow networks.
We move to lie tangled together on the makeshift bed Max creates from old blankets and couch cushions, our breathing gradually slowing in the dying firelight. My head rests on his chest, rising and falling with each breath.
“Max,” I murmur against his skin, tasting salt and satisfaction and the lingering sweetness of genuine intimacy.
“Mmm?”
“When this is over—when we’ve exposed The Architect and dismantled whatever’s left of the network—what then?”
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, each touch a small promise. “Then we figure out how to be normal people. Finish school, buy a house somewhere quiet, adopt a dog, argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes.”
“That sounds terrifying,” I admit with a soft laugh.
“Terrifying and perfect.”
I shift to look at him properly, studying his face in the flickering light. Tomorrow we’ll have to return to our war council, to planning operations and analyzing evidence and staying one step ahead of forces that want us dead. But tonight, in this moment suspended between past and future, we can pretend that love might be enough to protect us.
That’s when I see it.
The mark is small, barely visible behind his ear where his hairline meets his neck. In the dying firelight, it could almost be dismissed as a shadow, a trick of perception. But I’ve seen this symbol too many times to mistake it for anything innocent.
The same stylized serpent wrapped around a crown that was carved into the boat at Shark Bay. The same mark tattooed over my parents’ hearts. The same symbol carved into Janet Wilson’s flesh. And the same distinctive shark tooth design next to it.
My blood turns to arctic water.
“Max.” My voice comes out strangled, barely recognizable. “What is that behind your ear?”
“What?” He reaches up instinctively, fingers probing the spot I’m staring at. “Belle, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The mark.” I sit up abruptly, the blanket falling away as I lean closer to examine the symbol. “Max, there’s a mark behind your ear. The same one from the boat, from the documents, from—”
“What are you talking about?” He scrambles to his feet, moving to the broken mirror hanging on the lodge’s wall. In the firelight, his reflection is fractured, distorted, but I can see the moment recognition dawns. “Jesus Christ. Belle, I’ve never seen this before in my life.”
But even as he says it, I can see the doubt creeping into his expression. The same doubt that’s been poisoning my thoughts since we arrived at this supposedly safe location.
“When did you last look behind your ear?” I ask, though I already know the answer will be unsatisfying.
“I don’t know. Never specifically. Who looks behind their own ear?” His voice is rising, panic bleeding through his usual control. “Belle, I swear to you, I have no idea how this got here.”
I believe him—or I want to believe him. But the implications make my stomach churn with sick certainty. The Architect has been marking people for years, decades maybe. Potential victims, potential collaborators, potential assets to be activated when needed.
“How long have you been planning to bring down the network?” I ask, my mind racing through possibilities I don’t want to consider.
“Since I was fifteen. Since I found out what my father really did for a living.”
“And when did you first approach me at Shark Bay?”
