Page 85 of Betray Me
I stare at the mark, my mind reeling with implications. When was this done? How long have I been carrying this symbol without knowing it? The numbers could be a date—November 27th—but of which year? My birth year? The year I was first brought into the network’s operations?
My right hand trembles as I direct the light toward other parts of my body, looking for additional marks. Nothing on my arms or hands. Nothing on my legs that I can see through my clothes. But when I lift the edge of my shirt to check my torso…
Another symbol, smaller but equally clear. This one looks like architectural blueprints—geometric shapes that form what might be building layouts or organizational charts. And below it, more numbers: 0423.
April 23rd. The date of my first “gathering” when I was eleven years old. The night my childhood ended and my training as their perfect weapon began.
They marked me. Branded me like livestock, claiming ownership in a way that would be invisible to everyone, including me, unless someone knew exactly what to look for. The realization makes my skin crawl, makes me want to scrub at the marks until they bleed, until there’s no trace left of their claim on my body.
But even as revulsion wars with panic in my chest, another part of my mind—the analytical part that my father trained so well—is processing the implications. If I bear these marks, if Max bears similar symbols, then how many others are walking around without knowing they’ve been branded by The Architect?
Luna. Erik. David Stone. Jessica. How many people in my life carry invisible evidence of this network’s reach?
I turn the blue light toward Max’s sleeping form, careful not to wake him as I examine the skin I can see. His hands, resting peacefully on his chest, show nothing under the specialized illumination. But the mark behind his ear glows bright white under the blue light, more complex than I originally thought. Not just the serpent and crown, but also additional symbols that form an intricate pattern.
A pattern that matches the architectural designs on my torso.
We’re connected. Not just by choice or circumstance, but by design. Someone planned our relationship, orchestrated our meeting, guided our actions with invisible strings we never knew existed. The love I feel for him, the trust I’ve placed in him, the intimacy we’ve shared—all of it could be the result of psychological conditioning so sophisticated that we experience it as genuine emotion.
The thought should devastate me. Should make me question everything I believe about myself, about us, about the choices that led us to this grimy motel room. Instead, I find myself oddly calm.
Because even if our connection was planned, even if our emotions were carefully cultivated by experts in human manipulation, the fact remains that I’m sitting here at five in themorning, studying invisible tattoos by LED light while the man I love sleeps peacefully beside me. The fact remains that I chose to wear a wire against my own parents. The fact remains that I’m willing to hunt monsters in the shadows rather than surrender quietly to their designs.
Real or artificial, chosen or programmed, what exists between Max and me is the weapon I’m going to use to destroy the people who think they own us.
My email buzzes again. Another unknown sender:The marking was done when you were unconscious during memory alteration procedures. You’ve been an active asset for years without knowing it. Soon, you’ll understand your true purpose.
This time, I don’t delete the message. Instead, I screenshot it and add it to the growing collection of evidence we’re building against The Architect. Let them send their psychological warfare. Let them try to break me down with revelations designed to shatter my sense of self.
They don’t understand what they’re dealing with.
But still, I shiver at the thought that they are watching me, knowing what I’m doing at this very moment. How?
The camera on the computer.
I shut the computer harder than necessary and put it in the drawer. When I’m satisfied that I’m as safe as I can be again, I direct the blue light toward other objects in the room, looking for additional marks or messages. If this is all a part of their big plan, maybe even our coming here was predicted, guided, controlled.
The motel furniture shows nothing unusual. The walls are clean under the specialized illumination. Well, as clean as this dirty motel can be. There are spots and marks that I’d rather not get a closer look at. But when I shine the light on the window…
There, etched into the glass so faintly that it would be invisible without the right equipment, is a message:Belle, miss me? D.
Dominic.
He escaped the federal agents and has been on the run ever since. I thought he was old news, and yet somehow he’s managed to get a message to me in a random motel room we chose at random after walking through the forest for hours.
Unless it wasn’t random. Unless our path here was guided by the same invisible hands that have been shaping our lives since childhood.
I take photos of everything—the marks on my skin, the symbols behind Max’s ear, the message on the window. Evidence that might help us understand the scope of what we’re facing, or might just document how thoroughly we’ve been played by forces we never saw coming.
The sun is fully up now, painting the motel room in harsh morning light that makes everything look tired and worn. Max stirs on the bed, consciousness returning gradually as some internal clock tells him his rest period is over.
“Morning,” he mumbles, sitting up and running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Anything interesting happen during your watch?”
I look at him—this man who might love me by choice or by design, whose presence in my life might be the result of careful orchestration or genuine serendipity—and make a decision that feels both inevitable and terrifying.
“Max,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos in my head. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 30: Cursed Inheritance
