Page 15 of The Vagabond

SAXON

I watch her walk in like a ghost slipping into a dream — that damned cardigan sliding off one shoulder, keys jangling carelessly in her hand, hair wind-tossed and wild, lashes heavy with exhaustion she’ll never admit.

Maxine Andrade is a loner, but not the kind people romanticize.

She doesn’t walk through life like a delicate tragedy; she drifts like she’s underwater, breathless, unreachable — a girl who keeps everyone at arm’s length, not to be cruel, but because letting them close feels like handing over a knife and turning her back.

And family? What’s left of it barely fits the word.

There’s Mia — her older sister, all iron bones and razor-edged love, carrying the weight of two lost girls on her back. Mia fought every fight so Maxine and Sophia didn’t have to, and now that Sophia’s gone… she carries that, too.

Brando Gatti, Mia’s husband, is a storm wrapped in a suit — dangerous, loyal, lethal.

Brutally devoted to Mia, and by extension, Maxine.

He guards her like a ticking time bomb someone might try to set off.

There’s no tenderness in him, not for the world—but Maxine knows he’d burn it all down if anyone laid a finger on her again.

Then there’s Mason Ironside—her uncle. Rough. Rigid. A man full of violence and regret. He’s not soft. But he shows up. Always. The kind of protector who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel like you’re not alone.

And Shelby — his wife, his calm. She’s the warmth, the bridge, the one who helps Maxine remember there’s still light in a world that’s tried again and again to snuff her out.

And the Gattis? They’re not a family. They’re a fucking syndicate.

They’ve built a fortress around her, a shield made of muscle, money, and brutal, unrelenting loyalty.

She never asked for it, but they didn’t give her a choice.

She’s part of their blood circle now. Because after what she survived, they closed ranks.

They pulled her inside. And the Gattis don’t let go.

She moves through the apartment like she’s afraid to disturb the air, her steps soft, her breath measured. But I watch every second. Every. Single. One.

She doesn’t know it, but when she’s anxious, she hums. Some small, broken melody — the same one she used to hum in Kadri’s cage, when she was trying to hold her soul together. I know the tune because I still hear it in my sleep.

She sets her bag down, glances toward the window.

She feels it. The wrongness. Her instincts are sharp — they’ve had to be.

She disappears into the bathroom. The water turns on.

The clothes drop. Soft. Sweet. Sacred. Like a fucking offering.

And I hate myself. I hate the way my hand trembles on the vent cover.

I hate the way her body haunts my memory — every inch burned into me from nights I never wanted, nights I’ll never forgive.

I hate the way she looked at me, those blue-fire eyes filled with resignation and fragile, impossible trust, when I whispered I’d protect her.

She believed me. And I left her anyway .

Now she’s in the shower, and I can hear her crying under the water. I press my forehead to the cold metal slats, close my eyes, try not to picture it. Fail.

I see her rubbing herself raw, trying to scrub away the phantom of me, and all I want — all I fucking want — is to break out of this vent, wrap her in my arms, and tell her she’s safe.

But she won’t let me in. She’d scream. She’d fight. And she’d be right to do so. Because I left when she needed me to be her last tether, her last thread of hope. I abandoned her to the dark. And so now, I watch. I bleed for her in silence.

I know her routine better than she does. I know she buys chocolate milk so no one teases her, even though she prefers strawberry. I know she hugs a pillow to her stomach when she sleeps, like it will hold all the broken pieces of her together.

When she finishes her shower, she crawls into bed.

Her damp hair leaves a faint halo on the pillow.

She curls in on herself, pulling the blanket high, shivering despite the warmth.

And still, I don’t move. I stay hidden, heart thrashing in my chest, watching her chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

She shifts. Moans. I swear to God, I stop breathing. I could break. I could crawl out of this vent, press my body to hers, bury my face in her skin and promise her I’d destroy the world for just one more second of her trust.

But she’d probably kill me. And that’s not how I want to die.

She deserves to choose this. Not to be chased into it. So I stay. I wait. I bleed for her in silence. Because I’m not her hero. I’m her sin. And I’ll keep haunting her until the day she finally begs the devil to come in.

When I slide down silently from the vent, my palms hit the edge of the dresser, steadying myself. Bare feet kiss the hardwood like shadows, barely stirring the air.

I freeze. I don’t even breathe.

The room is thick with her presence — Maxine.

Shampoo and jasmine, the faint trace of sweat. There’s the restless energy of a girl who’s lived through hell and still carries the scorch marks on her soul.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. God, I want to touch her. No. I ache to touch her.

I move closer, inch by inch, closer than I’ve dared since the day Kadri made me prove myself in the ugliest, most unforgivable ways. My fingers hover, trembling, just above her jawline. I don’t even need to touch her — her presence alone is enough to crack me open.

And then—a breath hitches. Soft. Barely there. Her lips part, and my name slips out like a wound.

“…Saxon…”

My heart lurches. My entire body goes taut. She’s dreaming of me again. I lean down, so slowly the air between us hums, and breathe against her cheek — the ghost of a touch, a cruel reminder.

She bolts upright, gasping, wild-eyed.

And those eyes — fuck, those eyes — land on mine like a blow to the chest.

“Saxon.”

She doesn’t scream. She swings .

I catch her wrist mid-air, her pulse thrumming under my grip, and push her back — not to hurt her — just to hold her still, to keep her from shattering into pieces in front of me.

Her back hits the mattress. My body cages hers, a wall of heat and tension, but I don’t press down. I could . But I don’t .

Her chest heaves. She’s shaking. It’s not fear, but fury. Confusion. With the burning ache of a girl who remembers .

“You bastard?—”

I let go instantly, hands raised. But I don’t move back. I can’t .

“I just needed to see you.”

“Breaking into my apartment?” Her voice is a whipcrack, slicing the air. “That’s your idea of seeing me?”

“Would you have answered the door?”

Her glare could set the room on fire. “I would’ve called the cops.”

I smirk, dark and sharp. “I am the cops.”

Her lips tremble, but she doesn’t back down.

She yanks the blanket tighter around herself like armor, her shoulders coiled, her breath ragged.

She’s already halfway to burning me alive with her hate.

“Why are you here?!?” Her voice shakes, raw with betrayal. “You think you can just slither back in like nothing happened? You left me, Saxon! You left me there! And now you break into my home like I’m some unfinished project you forgot about?”

Her chest rises and falls in jagged pulls. The blanket slips down one shoulder, but she doesn’t pull it back up. She’s too far gone, too full of rage and grief and heartbreak.

“You don’t get to do this,” she spits. “You don’t get to play hero now. You had your chance. You left me. You’re a fucking monster.”

My face goes still. I don’t flinch.

I just murmur, low and raw, “Yeah. But I’m your monster, Maxine.”

Her eyes glisten — not with softness, but with that aching, bitter kind of recognition, like she can’t believe she still feels anything for me except hate.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers, voice shaking. “How did you get in? ”

I don’t answer. I don’t tell her what I want to say.

That I know her every routine. That I know the way she bites her lip when she’s lost in thought, the way her jaw tightens when she’s angry.

That I hear her cry in the shower. That I know the shape of her in the dark, the taste of her name on my tongue.

“You need to leave,” she says, voice cracking. “Get the fuck out!”

“Maxine…”

“Don’t!” she snaps, eyes blazing. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“I hear you,” I growl, stepping closer. “In my head. Every fucking night.”

Her breath stutters. She can feel the heat rolling off me now, the raw pulse of a man who’s barely holding it together.

“But I didn’t come here to scare you.”

She lets out a bitter, broken laugh. “You’re doing a great fucking job.”

“I came here,” I whisper, leaning in just enough for her to feel it, “because I can’t let you live a life that doesn’t have me in it.”

“You don’t belong in it.”

“I did once.”

“Not by choice.” Her chin quivers. “And then you left .”

“I had to.”

“You chose to.”

I move slowly, deliberately, and brush my fingers along her jaw — feather-light, reverent, like I’m touching something sacred. She doesn’t stop me. Her breath shivers, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I’m the man who still wakes up choking on the memory of you,” I murmur. “I’m the man who hears your scream in his chest every day. I’m the man who wants to spend whatever’s left of his life proving to you that walking away wasn’t the end of our story.”

Silence falls. Crackling. Splitting. Alive.

“You can’t fix it,” she whispers, eyes shimmering.

“I don’t want to fix it.”

She blinks, confused.

“I just want you .”

She flinches like the words hit her too hard.

And for one flickering second — just one — I see something shift in her eyes.

Not forgiveness. But memory. The memory of what we could have been, if the world had been kinder.

I force myself to pull back, even when every muscle in my body wants to stay, wants to fall to my knees and beg.

“I’ll leave,” I whisper.

She stares, trembling.

“But you should know something, Maxine.”

I step toward the window, sliding it open with a soft scrape.

The moonlight paints her skin silver, makes her look like a goddess and a ghost all at once.

“You still breathe my name in your sleep,” I murmur. “And baby… I’m listening.”

And then I disappear into the night.