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I nodded, even though my palms were sweating and my throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. I wanted to believe her, but there was a static hum in my chest that said otherwise.
Like something was building. I chalked it up to nerves. Lingering dread. Trauma leftovers. I didn’t know yet that it was a warning.
Later that afternoon, Mia insisted I come with her to visit Uncle Mason. He had been locked up—for what, I still didn’t fully understand. A misdemeanor traffic offense? After decades of murder, bribery, and mafia empire-building? It was laughable. Or it would have been if the idea of prison didn’t make my skin crawl.
Still, I went. Because being alone felt worse. Because Mia needed me, and I didn’t know how to say no to her when she said please with that quiet hope behind her eyes.
So we checked in. Passed security. Got the badges. Then we were led into the visitation room with its yellow-tinged lights and cracked vinyl chairs and that sound—that muffled, institutional silence I would never get used to.
I couldn’t sit still.
I perched on the edge of my chair. Then stood. Then paced. Sat again. My fingers drummed against my thighs, then twisted in my lap.
Mason’s eyes stayed locked on me, his brows pulled tight, a deep furrow carving between them. He watched me like he was trying to read something beneath my skin, like every breath I took was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His jaw worked, tense and silent, the kind of quiet that hummed with unsaid words.His gaze didn’t waver, heavy and unflinching, as though by sheer will alone he could figure out what was unraveling inside me.
“You good, Max?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. A lie. The door swung open and I glanced up, expecting another guard. But it wasn’t. It was a man. A tall one, dressed in a fitted suit with not a single wrinkle in sight.
He walked like the room belonged to him—like he wasn’t there to visit, but to command.
His tie was perfectly knotted. His shoulders squared. His hair—dirty blonde and neatly parted—gave him the kind of all-American wholesomeness that was too polished to be real.
But then—then I saw his eyes. Green. Vibrant. Ruthless. Familiar. Too familiar.
The air punched from my lungs. What the actual fuck? I froze, halfway between breath and blackout. My arms fell slack at my sides.. My lips parted. I couldn’t speak.
He glanced up. And his eyes landed on me.
And just like that—just like that—the floor fell out from under me.
Devon. No. Not Devon.
Him.
The man who had held my life in his hands and whispered lies into my ear that had felt like truth. The man who had touched me with gentleness while the world tried to break me. The man who had vanished.
His eyes flickered. Just for a second. Then he looked at Mason like I wasn’t even there.
“Good to see you again, Ironside.”
That voice. That low, calm, perfectly measured voice. It sliced through my skull like a razor. I exhaled sharply. My back straightened like I had been shocked.
Mason didn’t miss it. He followed my gaze. Saw the man. His eyes narrowed. And then his face hardened like stone.
“Saxon fucking North,” he hissed under his breath.
Saxon. Saxon North.
His real name. The man who had played my savior and my captor all at once. The one who had left before I could figure out whether to hate him or worship the ground he walked on.
My legs moved before my mind caught up. I stumbled into the hallway, away from the glass and the guards and him. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. My vision tunneled. My knees hit the tile floor and I curled over them, arms tight around my ribs.
I didn’t cry. I just shook. Violent. Silent. Internal. Because even now—even after seven months of therapy and healing and pretending—I was still his. And even after all this time, the man still had the power to detonate something inside me.
I don’t rememberthe drive home. Nothing registers. Everything after him is just white noise.
Saxon North. Devon Walsh. Both names sit like broken glass in the back of my throat. I can’t swallow around them. I can’t spit them out.