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“No?” I murmur.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “No. You’re worse.”
I raise an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching.
“But at least,” she continues, thumb brushing the scar above my eye, “at least you’re honest about it.”
36
MAXINE
Family shows up for you in your darkest hour. But sometimes, they don’t knock. They kick the damn door down.
Sometimes they don’t arrive with hugs and casseroles and soothing voices. They show up in black SUVs, with bloodied fists, in boots stomping through broken glass, voices raised not to scare you—but to wake you the hell up.
Sometimes they drag you out of the fire, kicking and screaming, because you've forgotten how to run on your own.
And sometimes, when your legs give out and your soul is nothing but splinters, they carry you. Limp. Hollow. Barely breathing. And not once do they ask you to be grateful for it. Not once do they demand you explain the ruin they pulled you from. Because real family doesn’t need you polished. They don’t need you whole, healed, or unbroken. They just need youalive. And they’ll do whatever it takes to keep you that way. Even if it means becoming monsters on your behalf. Because sometimes—family doesn’t come in bloodlines or birth certificates. Sometimes it comes in the shape of men who never learned how to pray, but kneel anyway when you walk in the room.
I never had brothers. Just my sisters—Mia and Sophia—and the constant, bone-deep ache of trying to survive in a world that was never built for girls like us.
We had each other, and even that felt borrowed. Fragile. Something we held onto with scraped palms and whispered promises, praying it wouldn’t be taken from us. Because when you grow up in the cracks of the world, love becomes something you ration. Like food. Warmth. Hope. And no matter how tightly we held on, the dark always found a way in.
Eventually, it found Sophia. It didn’t knock. It didn’t warn. It just ripped her from us like she was never ours to begin with. And after that, I stopped believing in being saved.
Until the Gatti brothers crashed into my life like a riot I never saw coming. They didn’t ask if I needed them. They didn’t wait for permission. They came in like a storm—loud, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore.
And in the wreckage, they tore down every lie I’d ever believed about the power of men. About what it meant to be protected without being owned. About the kind of love that builds walls around you to only keep the monsters out—never to keep you in.
They didn’t just rescue me. They gave me back pieces of myself I hadn’t realized were still missing. They built a fortress around me—not a cage. A home. A place where my fear could soften into something that almost looked like trust. Enough that I started to believe maybe… just maybe... I could open my heart again.
To others. To the world. To living.
And then there’s Saxon. His mouth doesn’t curve when he catches me staring at him, but his eyes do.And my heart? It does that stupid thing. That painful, soaring thing. It feels like singing in a language I’d long forgotten.
I think I love him.
Not the way storybooks teach you to love. But in the way trauma recognizes trauma. In the way two damaged, jagged-edged people can fit together like broken glass turned mosaic. We’re not perfect. We’re not even whole. But together? We function. Like one surviving, fighting molecule. Like oxygen and fire.
I’ve never felt more alive than I do when he’s near. And that scares me more than anything. Because I know how fragile this is. How fast life can tilt and swallow you whole. Still—I let myself dream. I think about what life could look like if I keep surviving. If Saxon keeps choosing me. I think about finishing school. About standing in the sunshine without squinting. About waking up in a bed that isn’t haunted by nightmares and bad memories. I even let myself wonder what it would be like to wake up next to him every day. His chest under my cheek. His breathing slow. His hand in my hair like it’s the most natural act in the world.
I think about family too. About how they’d react. I know there’s going to be pushback. Saxon is... complicated. So am I. But they don’t see what I see.
They don’t see the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—like I’m gravity itself. Like I’m the ground beneath his feet, the sun that warms what’s left of him, and the last drop of water in a desert he’s been dying in for years.
Yet now? Now I’m ready to fight for him. For us. Even if the world doesn’t understand it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it means walking away from everything safe and expected. Because Saxonismy safe now. My constant in the chaos.
And I’m just starting to believe—maybe, just maybe—I’m allowed to have something good.
That’s what I’m thinking when I walk home tonight. When I climb the stairs. When I tell myself I’m fine. When I smile for no reason. And that’s what makes what happens next so cruel. Because I never saw it coming.
The ache sinks deep,curling into my bones and threading itself through my blood.
It’s not just pain—it’s weariness, soul-deep and suffocating. Everything feels heavy. My limbs. My chest. Even the fragile thread of hope I’ve been clinging to—it droops under the weight like it’s tired too.
Still, I make it up the stairs like I always do. One step at a time. One more flight. One more breath. Keys in hand. Tote bag slung over my shoulder. The is my routine now. It’s predictable. Comforting in a way that most things aren’t anymore. That’s what happens when you’ve looked death in the eye—suddenly, the dull routine, the quiet, the normal, feels like a gift. Like survival disguised as monotony.
One more locked door between me and the small pocket of safety I’ve carved out for myself.