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My skin feels wrong — stretched too tight, too thin — every bruise a burning ember under the surface, pulsing hotter the longer I sit still.
We drove for hours through the dead of night, deeper and deeper into nowhere, until we reached this little cabin buried in the woods.
It’s so tucked away, so hidden, I doubt it even shows up on a map. In a strange way, that makes me feel safe. Like the world can’t touch us here, and the monsters can’t find me in this pocket of silence.
But under the comfort is a shadow — a gnawing unease that crawls through my bones. We’re so far from everything. So far off the grid. If something happened now, if we needed help… no one would come. Not quickly, anyway.
But I understand why Saxon brought us here. He had no choice. We needed distance — from the city, from the carnage,from the bodies left strewn in that dark basement. Because there’s going to be hell to pay for what happened tonight. Bureau hell. Political hell. I know it. I can feel it, thrumming under my skin like a second heartbeat.
But for now, we’re here. And all I can do is shiver beneath this blanket, wondering how long this stolen moment will last before the outside world crashes back in.
Across the room, Saxon fumbles through a med kit — gauze, antiseptic, needle, thread. His hands tremble. I’ve never seen him like this.
Saxon North, the man who hunts monsters like it’s a calling, can’t even look at me without his jaw clenching, his chest heaving like the weight of me might crush him.
He kneels in front of me, fingers grazing my knee.
I flinch — just a flicker, just a ghost of a reaction — but it’s enough to make his face twist like I’ve gutted him.
“Max,” he rasps, voice cracked and ruined. “It’s me, baby. Just me.”
I lift my gaze, even though one eye’s almost swollen shut.
“I know,” I whisper, my voice a thread. “I can’t help it.”
He dips the cloth in warm water, wrings it out, and gently touches it to the gash on my arm.
The sting sears deep. I suck in a breath, biting back the sound.
“God, I’m sorry,” he chokes.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“No,” his voice cracks, thick with grief. “Nothing about this is fucking okay.”
My trembling fingers lift, brushing his hair — desperate to anchor myself in him.
“You came for me,” I breathe, voice shattering.
His shoulders quake. His eyes squeeze shut.
“I would’ve torn the fucking world apart to get to you,” he whispers, like a promise, like a curse.
I want to tell him everything,needto — the filth, the chains, the sale that nearly ended me — but the words snarl inside, strangled by memory.
His thumb brushes over my temple, wiping at the blood near my hairline. I wince.
“I thought I was going to die there,” I whisper, small, ashamed.
His hands still, shaking hard. “Max…”
“He sold me,” I breathe, hollow and breaking. “I was hours away from disappearing again. If you hadn’t come…”
Saxon’s fists snap tight, veins standing out, chest rising like he’s fighting to stay caged.
He sets the cloth down, breath ragged, eyes dark. He picks up the needle and thread, fingers trembling.
“I’m going to stitch you up now, okay?” His voice is low, raw, barely holding together.