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She shakes her head once, eyes clenched shut, like if she looks at me she’ll change her mind.
“We can’t,” she whispers. Her voice cracks on the last word, like it’s trying to claw its way back down her throat.
My chest caves.
“I know,” I say, even though I don’t. Not really. I don’t understand how the world can expect me to walk away from her and keep breathing like that’s supposed to be normal.
“I—” she starts, then stops. Her hands flatten against my chest and push. Firmer now. With intent. “Saxon, please.”
Please.
That’s the part that undoes me. She’s asking me to go for her sake, not because she doesn’t want me. Not because she didn’t feel it too. But because she's stronger than I am in this moment, and she knows the truth neither of us wants to admit.
I nod, jaw tight, and step back. My body is already mourning her before I’m even out the door.
She doesn’t follow. Just watches with hollow eyes as I leave. No goodbye. No last look. Just silence and regret hanging heavy in the air between us.
Outside, the night air slaps me in the face. It’s cold, but not enough to numb the ache splitting me in half.
I stumble into the street like I’ve been hit. Like the kiss was a car crash and now I’m bleeding out under flickering streetlights, surrounded by the echo of everything I’ll never have. She was the only part of my life that ever made sense. And I don’t deserve her. But that hasn’t stopped me from wanting her. Not since the first time. Not since that first night more than a year ago.
The night I was undercover, deep in hell, forced to play a role in a world that chews people up and spits them out in pieces. When Kadri ordered me to use her—to touch her, to keep up appearances—I told myself that I had no choice. That it would save her life. That if I didn’t do it, someone worse would.
But even then... even when my heart was breaking and I hated myself more than I ever have... she was all I could think about. Every breath she took. Every soft sound she made. Every flash of rebellion in her eyes. I touched her like I was dying, and she didn’t even know who I was.
She still doesn’t know the full truth. But I do. I know that since that night, I haven’t touched another woman. Not once. Not even close. Not even drunk or lonely or bleeding out and trying to forget her name. Because forgetting Maxine Andrade? Impossible. She lives under my skin. In my head. In my fucking bloodstream. And no amount of years or distance or rules or rivals is going to change that.
There is no other woman. Not for me. There never has been. Just her. And I don’t care how many laws I have to break, how many lines I have to blur—Iwillfind a way to make this happen. One way or another… Maxine Andrade will be mine.
28
MAXINE
Green. Fractured glass and fury.
That’s the colour of his eyes. The natural colour. They’re brilliant and bright and soulful, and I think that’ll be the thing that undoes me. Because when I knew him—when I met him in Altin Kadri’s castle, when he was deep undercover—he had brown eyes and dark brown hair. Five-day growth. Handsome, quiet, dangerous. And his eyes spoke to me in ways his mouth never could. For four days, he was the only thing that made sense in the prison of my life.
The city rolls by in blurs of neon and dusk-stained glass, but I don’t see any of it. My gaze is fixed on the rain dots scattering across the window like pebbles. Falling. Fading. Gone.
My pulse hasn’t calmed since he came back into my life. It spikes every time I breathe too deep, every time I blink and see his face again—standing in that visitor’s room in the prison where Mason was being held. Taller than I remembered. Broader. Sharper. But unmistakably him.
That was the first time I saw Devon Walsh again after that fucking day in the castle that nearly broke me. Mason calledhimSaxon. And I couldn’t believe how entangled he was in our world.
I try to remind myself it was all a disguise back then. The dark brown hair. The brown contacts. A gruffer voice. Leaner frame. But his eyes—I knew. Even through the fog of withdrawal and fear, even with the room spinning and the taste of nausea in my mouth, I knew it was him. The man I knew as Devon Walsh.
I still remember how he touched me that first night—clinical, calculated. One hand around my jaw as he pretended to appraise me like merchandise. That was his role. Undercover agent. Deep cover. A monster in borrowed skin. But it wasn’t the touch that stayed with me. It was the pause. The split-second where his eyes softened—like maybe he saw me. Really saw me. Like maybe he’d tear the whole place down if no one was watching. Then it passed. And a few days later, he walked away.
Now he’s here. In my city. No disguise. No shadows. Just his real face—messy folds of light brown hair and those goddamn emerald green eyes in brutal high definition. And he’s doing more damage now than he ever did back then. Because now he’s free to look at me. With those eyes. And I can’t bring myself to look away. I hate him for it. Because I can’t hate him enough.
I shift in the seat. The driver says something, but it doesn’t register. My nails dig into my thigh until the sting cuts through the static in my head. I should be preparing myself to smile, to nod politely, to sit across the table from people who think I’m okay now.
People like Mia—my sweet, beautiful older sister who loves too hard and keeps texting me dessert emojis like they’ll fix my brain. And Mason. My complicated, brutal uncle who’d probably kill Saxon if he knew half of what I remembered. He’s always been a constant in my life, but he’s Mia’s biological father, which makes things... weird. Is he my uncle, or my father by default? I still callhim Mason, and that’s good enough for now, I guess. Then there’s Brando—that hawk. Always watching. Calculating. Stifling. He’d lock me in a gilded cage if it meant keeping Mia safe from the pain of me being hurt again. And Shelby. Glowing, tired, beautiful Shelby. She sees everything, even when she says nothing.
They’ll all be there tonight. Laughing. Eating. Pretending we’re a family. And I’m pulling up outside like this is just another day in the life of.
The car stops. I inhale once. Twice. It doesn’t help. I step out into the night, straighten my jacket, and paste on the version of Maxine they expect to see. The one who survived.
I walk up to the house. The door opens. And the illusion begins.