Page 17 of The Vagabond

SAXON

I ’m parked across the street like a goddamn creep, pretending it’s all part of the job. Like this is work and not obsession. Like I’m surveilling a suspect and not the woman I can’t stop thinking about.

Maxine Andrade.

I tell myself I just want to make sure she’s safe.

That’s the lie I live in now—wrapped in layers of justification and thin excuses. But the truth? The truth is uglier. I just want to see her. Even from a distance.

Mia Gatti pulls up first, her black SUV aggressive as always. She’s out the door fast, practically sprinting inside. A few minutes later, Tayana Kamarov follows. Same energy. Tight lips. Stormy eyes.

They don’t leave that night. That sets off a dozen alarms in my brain. What happened? Is she okay? Who did this? No answer. No movement. Just hours of lights flickering behind drawn blinds.

Then Brando shows up in the early morning. And I know the storm’s coming before he even gets to the building.

Part of me wants to charge across the street and shove him back into his car. The other part knows I’m the reason Maxine needed reinforcements in the first place.

They’re up there for maybe forty minutes.

Then Mia and Tayana come down with Brando. None of the three look happy, and from where I’m sitting covertly across the road, it looks like Brando is muttering curses as his long legs carry him to his car.

Maxine’s alone again. I wait a few minutes, then I get out of the car.

My feet move on autopilot. Each step toward her door feels like it’s laced with guilt and history.

I don’t know what I’m doing. What I expect to say.

I just know that I can’t keep watching her from the sidelines.

Not when she looks like she’s slowly peeling herself apart just to survive.

I lift my hand to knock.

And the door explodes open before I can.

She barrels into me, gym bag slung over her shoulder, keys in hand—and freezes like she just ran into a wall. Which, I guess, I am.

I forget how to breathe. She’s wearing black tights that hug every inch of her like they were painted on, a cropped gym top that shows off the curve of her waist and just enough of her stomach to make my thoughts go sideways.

There’s a zip-up jacket hanging open, barely clinging to her shoulders, fluttering behind her like wings she doesn’t know she has.

Her blond hair’s yanked up in a messy ponytail, strands slipping free and framing her face like they’re trying to remind me she’s not just beautiful—she’s real . Her cheeks are flushed, not from exertion, but from fire. Rage. Or maybe it’s the heat between us that only I seem to feel right now.

She’s lithe, lean, and deadly in her own quiet way—and her body moves like it remembers what survival costs.

Like she trained in pain and came out stronger, sharper.

And when her eyes meet mine, blazing with fury and fear and something I can't touch without bleeding? I’m ruined.

Because I don’t just want her. I’m in awe of her.

She takes my breath like a thief, and I don’t even want it back.

Maxine’s breath catches. Her eyes widen, and then narrow like a blade.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps.

I open my mouth, but I don’t get a word in.

“No. No, you don’t get to do this,” she hisses. “You don’t get to lurk outside like a ghost and show up at my door like this whenever you want.”

“I just wanted to check on you.”

“I don’t want you to check on me!”

She steps forward, jabs her finger into my chest.

“You don’t get to disappear for months, let me think I imagined you, then show up the minute I start breathing again.”

“Maxine—”

“No!” Her voice breaks. “I’m trying to stay sane . You showing up? You undo that. Every second you’re near me, I feel like I’m slipping back into that fucking castle. Into that room. Into who I was.”

I clench my fists at my sides.

“I was trying to protect you,” I say. “You think leaving you there didn’t kill me?”

“I don’t care what killed you,” she spits, voice trembling. “I care what nearly killed me .”

I flinch. Because it’s true.

Her eyes are wild. Red-rimmed. Beautiful even in fury. And I hate myself for noticing. For wanting every single little broken piece of her.

“I was doing okay,” she whispers, quieter now, the rage cracking just slightly. “And then I saw you. And everything I fought to bury clawed its way back. ”

I take a step closer. She puts a hand on my chest and shoves. Not hard. But enough to hold me back.

“Don’t come back here, Saxon. Don’t watch me from a distance. Don’t hover. Don’t care about me unless you’re willing to stay and clean up the mess you made.”

Her voice is pure venom now.

“Because I’ve got enough people protecting me. I don’t need the man who broke me playing savior now.”

I nod, even though every part of me wants to push the door open and shove my way into her life.

“Okay,” I say, voice rough. “I hear you.”

She stares at me for a long, aching beat. Then she steps back into her apartment and slams the door in my face. And I let her. Because it’s the first time I’ve seen her choose herself. And fuck me, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I don’t remember the drive home.

Just the blur of headlights cutting through the early morning fog, the screech of tires as I take the turn too hard. The wheel jerks in my hand. The world tilts. I welcome the chaos.

Her voice is still in my head. Lodged there like a bullet I can’t dig out.

“Don’t hover. Don’t care about me unless you’re willing to stay and clean up the mess you made.”

She’s right.

Fuck , she’s right.

I pull up to my apartment like I’m driving a stolen car on fire—crooked, half on the sidewalk, bumper scraping against the curb like it’s trying to hold me back.

I stumble inside, shove the door shut behind me hard enough to rattle the frame, and just stand there for a second. Listening.

To nothing.

Just the hum of the refrigerator. The quiet throb of the blood in my ears. The silence is so heavy it feels like a noose.

I drop my jacket. Don’t bother with the lights. The room is gray-blue with morning light bleeding through the windows. Cold. Unforgiving.

I pace. Tight lines, over and over, like I’m trying to wear a hole into the floor. My jaw’s locked so tight I feel it pop. My hands are fists. My body wants violence.

But there’s no one here to hurt except myself.

I see her. Everywhere. Her face in the window reflection. Her eyes in the shadows. The way she looked at me this morning—like I was the edge of the trauma she’s still dragging behind her.

I hate it. I hate that I ever made her feel that way. I hate that she’s right to want me gone.

Savage fury swells in my chest like a fire with nowhere to go. I knock a chair over. It splinters against the wall. A glass flies next. Shatters. The lamp follows, crashing to the floor in a flash of sparks and sharp edges.

The sound helps. But not enough. Nothing will ever be enough.

I drop to my knees in the middle of the kitchen, breathing like I just ran through hell barefoot. My fists are bleeding. I don’t remember hitting anything, and I don’t care if I did.

I stare down at the blood on my knuckles like it owes me an answer. Like maybe if I bleed enough, I can make this right. But nothing rewinds time. Not even this.

I should’ve stayed. Should’ve burned Kadri’s castle to the ground and carried Maxine out over my shoulder if I had to.

I should’ve told her I was real. That what happened between us was real—even if it started as a lie.

But I didn’t. I left her there. Drugged.

Half-conscious. In the hands of monsters .

And now she’s back, standing on her own, stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for. She’s fire and grit and trauma molded into something fucking beautiful . And all I can think about is the feel of her skin under my hands.

That first night. The soft curve of her waist. The goosebumps that followed my touch like they were afraid of what would come next. The way she breathed against my neck like she was learning how to survive again, one inhale at a time.

I remember her pretending it didn’t hurt. And I remember pretending I wasn’t already falling. Because I was. God help me, I was. I’ve had bodies. I’ve had heat. I’ve had skin and sweat and moans and teeth marks. But I only remember her.

I bury my face in my hands. My breath comes ragged, broken.

I don’t just want to protect her. I want to undo the world for her.

I want to erase every scar. Every scream.

Every second she ever thought she was disposable.

I want to give her something good, even if it kills me.

But what if I’m not the protector? What if I’m the fucking predator?

What if I’m the reason she can’t sleep at night?

That thought splits me wide open. Leaves me raw and hollow and cold in a room full of my own wreckage.

Because I would burn down cities just to keep her heart beating.

But maybe I’m the smoke she can’t breathe through.

And that? That’s the part that kills me.