Page 11 of The Vagabond

SAXON - FOUR MONTHS AGO

I saw her before she saw me. Of course I did.

I could pick Maxine Andrade out of a crowd of a thousand. Blindfolded. Half-dead. Didn’t matter. There’s something about her—something that’s embedded under my skin like shrapnel. I’d know her silhouette. Her walk. The tilt of her head when she’s listening to a lie she wants to believe.

She was in the hospital waiting room, pacing like the floor is lava and she’s trying not to burn. Her arms were wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold the seams of her soul together, her jaw locked, eyes fixed on Brando like she was daring him to speak again.

She’s not fragile. She’s fury in remission.

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose braid, frayed strands clinging to the tension lining her face. Her blue eyes didn’t shimmer; they burned—cold and sharp, the kind of color that made you think of deep oceans and deeper secrets.

And just like that, I wasn’t in the hospital anymore.

I was back in that castle.

Kadri’s estate .

The room with the locked windows and velvet curtains. The place where Maxine was kept. Broken. Controlled.

I remembered her silence more than anything.

The way she stared at the walls like if she looked long enough, they’d open up and swallow her whole.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. She didn’t ask to be saved.

She was just gone behind her eyes. But now—now those eyes locked onto mine. And they were not empty.

That same fire still burned there, low and slow like coals that refused to die.

That same quiet defiance—choking down fear just to hold her ground.

And underneath it, buried deep like a splinter that never healed, that same bitterness.

Old and sour. The kind that settled into your bones when the world owed you more than it ever gave.

Maxine didn’t flinch when she saw me. She didn’t look away. She just stared me down—and for a moment, I felt like I was on trial.

The girl from that locked room was gone. And in her place stood something forged in the aftermath. Sharper. Colder. Made of whatever was left after the fire scorched through her soul and didn’t quite put her out.

Brando picked up on it immediately. His gaze flicked between us, shoulders going taut, like he could feel the tension bleeding out of us in thick, suffocating waves.

He stepped forward, slow and solid, slipping between us like a man walking into a storm.

He’d do anything to protect his sister in law from the likes of me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled. Not a question. A warning.

His eyes narrowed as they bounced between Maxine and me, reading something in the silence—something unspoken and unsettling. And from the way his mouth hardened, he clearly didn’t like it .

I didn’t answer immediately.

Lucky stepped in beside me, slow and steady, his posture calm but unmistakably protective. A silent message that didn’t need to be spoken:

He’s with me. Back off.

I kept my eyes on Brando.

I didn’t owe him a damn thing.

Mason Ironside’s new girl just happened to be the ex-wife of my former partner — a man who, conveniently, had gone missing. It only made sense for me to check on her after the attack. After all, she was assaulted right around the same time my old partner vanished.

My silence hung between us, thick and heavy — the kind that said everything and nothing all at once.

I glanced back at Maxine. She hadn’t moved.

Still as a statue. Spine straight, arms crossed tight across her chest like she was holding herself together with sheer force of will.

There was no fear in her expression. No vulnerability.

Just a calm, ruthless kind of readiness.

She looked like she’d take a bullet just to see who fired the shot.

For some goddamn reason, I had the sudden urge to ask if she was okay. But there were too many eyes watching. Too much history standing between us. And this… this was not the time nor the place.

Her eyes met mine, sharp and surgical. A warning. Don’t. She didn’t want anyone knowing about what passed between us—just as much as I didn’t want to explain it.

The air tightened, a silent battle of wills crackling between us like exposed wire.

Neither of us spoke or blinked in the tense standoff.

Then, for the first time since I walked into the goddamn minefield, something inside me stilled.

Because whatever I came here for—leads, clues, answers—I’d found something else entirely.

Something hanging heavy in the air. A line. A choice. A quiet reckoning.

Maxine folded her arms tighter, chin raised in defiance, eyes locked on mine.

She was daring me. She was always daring me.

“What are you doing here, Fed?” Her voice was cool—too cool. A blade disguised as a question.

I met her stare, steady and unreadable.

“I’m glad you’re home, Maxine.”

The second the words left my mouth, my voice gliding over her name like a caress, she stiffened. Because anyone standing within earshot couldn’t possibly miss the air of familiarity between us. Her reaction was probably one she’d hate herself for.

Brando blinked, frowning. “What’s he talking about, Max?”

Silence. She didn’t answer. Her jaw locked so tight, I swear I heard her teeth grind.

Her pulse flickered at the base of her throat, a rapid, barely contained drumbeat.

She was waiting. Waiting for me to say it.

To acknowledge it. To spill out the ugly, raw truth between us, right there, under the fluorescent lights of that goddamn hospital waiting room.

I didn’t. I stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, something light, floral, deceptively soft. A scent so completely her.

I lowered my voice, slow and steady. Dangerous.

“I kept you alive,” I told her. “You know that.” Her breath hitched. “And if I had to do it again,” I continued, “to keep you from getting carved up by Kadri’s men, I fucking would.”

Her lips parted—just slightly. But she didn’t speak.

For a moment, we just stared at each other.

The air was thick with unspoken words, regret, resentment.

She hated me for leaving her there. And I hated myself for not saving her.

For fucking her and then walking out that door. For never going back .

Then, she shoved past me. Her shoulder knocked into mine, a little too hard, just enough to make a point. I didn’t stop her. I didn’t turn around. I just stood there, my jaw tight, my fists clenched, as her footsteps faded down the hallway.

Brando let out a long, slow breath. “Jesus.”

I didn’t answer.

I just turned toward Shelby’s door, my mind still on Maxine.

I couldn’t go back and fix the past.

But I could damn well make sure Shelby didn’t end up another name on my list of regrets.

Lucky cleared his throat beside me, subtle but strategic, like he was trying to let the tension drain off just enough to keep the walls from cracking.

Mia slipped into the edge of my vision, her small hand landing gently on Brando’s arm—his anchor. His steadying point.

Meanwhile, I slid my hands into my pockets and turned slightly toward Lucky, keeping my voice calm, casual, but clipped.

That’s when I saw him. Mason Ironside. Stalking toward us like a loaded gun with a vendetta. And that was my cue to leave.

I sat in my car long after the engine was off, knuckles white against the wheel, replaying it in my head on a loop.

Her face. Her fucking face.

She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe I am one. I sure as hell feel like one most days. Haunting rooms. Leaving damage.

What the fuck was I thinking, going to the hospital?

But I went there because I knew she would be here. Because I wanted to see her. Because I wanted to hurt.

She hadn’t left my head in months. She lived in the part of my brain where sleep should have been. She was in the clench of my jaw, the twitch in my trigger finger, the phantom pressure of her body under mine when I’m too tired to pretend I’ve moved on.

And seeing her today?

She was still so fucking beautiful. Hollowed out, but glowing. Eyes wide and haunted, but burning like embers that refuse to go cold.

She didn’t scream at me or cry or fall apart. She just looked at me. And somehow that was worse.

Because in that look, I saw every question she never got to ask. Every promise I broke. Every touch I left on her skin that she still hadn’t washed off.

She’d wanted me once. Or maybe she just loved the idea of being seen. And fuck me—I wanted to be the man who deserved that. But I wasn’t. I’m not.

I’m a Fed. A liar. A weapon pointed at monsters that sometimes forgets he’s not one of them.

I let her believe in something soft while the walls were rigged with cameras. I let her think I could save her, then disappeared like a coward.

And now she has to live in a world where I exist again. That’s on me.

I light a cigarette with hands that won’t stop shaking. The smoke burns. But it’s the only thing that feels real right now.