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“I’m coming,” he says, no room for argument. “Wait for me inside. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
I hang up. For a moment, I just stand there, lungs dragging in the cold night air like it might steady the war inside my chest. It doesn’t.
I press my back to the door, hands clenched, eyes locked on the street. Waiting.
For the one man I shouldn’t need. The one I pretend I don’t wait for. The one I know — deep down, raw and unspoken — is the one who’ll come in a heartbeat. Not to save me or hold me. But to tear this city apart, bone by bone, and leave it burning at my feet.
32
MAXINE
Ileft the chain on the door. Not because I thought it would stop him. But because I needed the illusion of control for just a second longer. There’s one knock. Then another—harder, more violent. Then silence. And then:“Maxine. Open the door.”
My breath catches. He’s here.
I undo the chain with shaking fingers. The second the bolt clicks, the door crashes open and Saxon North barrels inside like he’s ready to kill someone.
His chest is rising too fast. His jaw is clenched, his eyes scanning the apartment like he expects to find someone with me. He’s soaking wet from the rain, suit jacket clinging to his frame, tie half undone. He looks like a man who’s been dragging himself out of hell—and got halfway through before deciding he liked the fire.
I shut the door behind him. Lock it.
“You came,” I say, barely a whisper.
He turns to me slowly. His eyes—those tortured, storm-wracked eyes—land on mine, and something inside him shatters.
“I ran,” he says.
And then he’s on me. His hands are everywhere—checking, scanning, searching for a wound that isn’t there. His palms skim my arms, my sides, my face. And when he finds nothing—no bruises, no cuts, no damage—he steps back like it confuses him more.
“You’re okay?” he rasps.
“I’m fine. Just shaken.”
His jaw ticks. His gaze drops to the floor, and when he lifts it again, he looks wild.
“They showed up at your fucking door.”
“I told you. I didn’t let them in?—”
“I know.” He cuts me off. “But what if you had? What if Zack had gotten to you first? What if he’s already...”
He trails off, like even saying it is too much. His voice drops, quiet and brutal.
“Tell me he didn’t touch you.”
I blink. “What?”
“Zack,” he growls. “Tell me he didn’t come near you. Didn’t try anything.”
“He didn’t, Saxon.”
“Swear it.”
I step toward him. “I swear. No one touched me.”
He backs away, pacing like a caged animal. His hands rake through his hair. His jaw flexes. He’s on the edge of panic, chaos, and he doesn’t know where to put his violence.