Page 124

Saxon doesn’t stop walking and he doesn’t so much as glance at him. He continues to walk, as though in a trance, until Scar falls into step beside us, voice low. Controlled.
“Vernon Gibbons isn’t just a name. He’s the current mouthpiece for the Aviary and a respected member of the community. You don’t try to take out a man like that without consequence.”
Saxon’s jaw tightens. I feel it under my cheek. I guess he wasn’t actually supposed to gut the man.
Scar continues. “When word spreads—and it will—this doesn’t end with you walking away. They’ll come looking. For you. For her. For anyone tied to this.”
“She’s not staying in the city,” Saxon says. He speaks without hesitation; no argument in his voice, as though he’s stating a fact. And that’s when Mason explodes.
“The fuck she’s not,” he growls, storming toward us. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“She’ll be protected,” Saxon snarls back, finally stopping. His voice cracks around the edges—raw, wrecked. “I’m protecting her.”
“She’s not yours to protect.”
“She’s not safe in the city,” Saxon bites back.
I want to speak. But I don’t. I just bury my face in Saxon’s shirt and close my eyes. Because I don’t want to be the thing they fight over. I just want to be free.
Scar steps between them, holding up a hand.
“Enough. You want her safe?” He asks, directing his attention to Mason. “She leaves the city until this dies down. You want to fight about it, do it after we know the danger has passed.”
Mason seethes. But he doesn’t argue. Not because he agrees. But because deep down, he knows that this is what needs to happen.
Saxon stops walking and turns slightly, still holding me tight against his chest. His eyes scan the men around us—Scar, Lucky, Mason, Kanyan—not with suspicion, but with something rarer.
Gratitude.
The silent kind. The kind that doesn’t need to be said out loud because it’s carved into his jaw, into the set of his shoulders, into the way he hasn’t let go of me since the moment he found me.
He wouldn’t have pulled this off alone. Heknowsthat. Yet still, a small voice inside me wonders—Where were the agents?Where was the Bureau?Wasn’t this supposed to be a joint task force? A coordinated strike? Like he reads the question on my face, Saxon’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp but hoarse.
“I’ll reach out to some old contacts. I’ve got enough on the Pastor to bury him six times over and keep digging.”
Scar nods once. “Be careful who you trust.”
The warning lingers in the air, heavier than the smoke still curling from the wreckage behind us. There are bodies cooling inside that house. Secrets buried with them. More criminals waiting to be named.
Saxon’s lips tighten into a line, his expression unreadable. He gives Scar a sharp nod of acknowledgment—but says nothing. He just turns and walks again, carrying me like I’m too fragile and too sacred to be jostled. And maybe I am. Because for the first time in days, I’m back in his arms, and I don’t feel fragile, like I’m about to break.
He reaches the SUV, opens the door, and gently lowers me onto the seat like I’m porcelain. His hands are careful, reverent, shaking just a little as he buckles the seatbelt across my chest. He checks it twice before he pulls back.
Brando materializes behind him—silent, grim, eyes red-rimmed from what he’s holding back.
He steps up as Saxon moves aside, and leans into the open door. His voice is tight, the words sticking in his throat like they don’t want to be spoken.
“You take care of her,” he tells Saxon without looking at him. His voice is low. Threat and plea wrapped in one. “If you fuck this up?—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence as his eyes meet mine. And theysoften. Brando lifts a hand and gently brushes my hair back from my face, his touch careful, trembling with raw emotion. “Mia doesn’t know,” he says quietly. “And I don’t want her to. Soplease—please—just stay alive for her, Maxine. For all of us. Just… be safe.”
My chest aches with the weight of his words. I nod once. That’s all I can manage. Saxon climbs in beside me, slams the door shut, and without another word, he starts to drive. No destination spoken. Justaway. Away from the blood. From the ghosts still whispering in the charred halls of that mansion. And maybe we’re driving straight into darkness, but it’shisdarkness. And in Saxon’s arms—even the storm feels like salvation. Because I’m not the kind of girl who gets rescued. I’m the kind who survives. And the kind who lets a killer carry her out of hell… So I can finally learn how to live.
51
MAXINE
I’m perched on the edge of the sofa, knees drawn to my chest, shivering under the blanket Saxon tucked around me.