Page 29 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

G reen. Fractured glass and fury.

That’s the colour of his eyes. The natural colour.

They’re brilliant and bright and soulful, and I think that’ll be the thing that undoes me.

Because when I knew him—when I met him in Altin Kadri’s castle, when he was deep undercover—he had brown eyes and dark brown hair.

Five-day growth. Handsome, quiet, dangerous.

And his eyes spoke to me in ways his mouth never could.

For four days, he was the only thing that made sense in the prison of my life.

The city rolls by in blurs of neon and dusk-stained glass, but I don’t see any of it. My gaze is fixed on the rain dots scattering across the window like pebbles. Falling. Fading. Gone.

My pulse hasn’t calmed since he came back into my life. It spikes every time I breathe too deep, every time I blink and see his face again—standing in that visitor’s room in the prison where Mason was being held. Taller than I remembered. Broader. Sharper. But unmistakably him.

That was the first time I saw Devon Walsh again after that fucking day in the castle that nearly broke me. Mason called him Saxon . And I couldn’t believe how entangled he was in our world.

I try to remind myself it was all a disguise back then.

The dark brown hair. The brown contacts.

A gruffer voice. Leaner frame. But his eyes—I knew.

Even through the fog of withdrawal and fear, even with the room spinning and the taste of nausea in my mouth, I knew it was him. The man I knew as Devon Walsh.

I still remember how he touched me that first night—clinical, calculated.

One hand around my jaw as he pretended to appraise me like merchandise.

That was his role. Undercover agent. Deep cover.

A monster in borrowed skin. But it wasn’t the touch that stayed with me.

It was the pause. The split-second where his eyes softened—like maybe he saw me.

Really saw me. Like maybe he’d tear the whole place down if no one was watching.

Then it passed. And a few days later, he walked away.

Now he’s here. In my city. No disguise. No shadows.

Just his real face—messy folds of light brown hair and those goddamn emerald green eyes in brutal high definition.

And he’s doing more damage now than he ever did back then.

Because now he’s free to look at me. With those eyes.

And I can’t bring myself to look away. I hate him for it. Because I can’t hate him enough.

I shift in the seat. The driver says something, but it doesn’t register. My nails dig into my thigh until the sting cuts through the static in my head. I should be preparing myself to smile, to nod politely, to sit across the table from people who think I’m okay now.

People like Mia—my sweet, beautiful older sister who loves too hard and keeps texting me dessert emojis like they’ll fix my brain.

And Mason. My complicated, brutal uncle who’d probably kill Saxon if he knew half of what I remembered.

He’s always been a constant in my life, but he’s Mia’s biological father, which makes things.

.. weird. Is he my uncle, or my father by default?

I still call him Mason, and that’s good enough for now, I guess.

Then there’s Brando—that hawk. Always watching.

Calculating. Stifling. He’d lock me in a gilded cage if it meant keeping Mia safe from the pain of me being hurt again.

And Shelby. Glowing, tired, beautiful Shelby.

She sees everything, even when she says nothing.

They’ll all be there tonight. Laughing. Eating. Pretending we’re a family. And I’m pulling up outside like this is just another day in the life of.

The car stops. I inhale once. Twice. It doesn’t help. I step out into the night, straighten my jacket, and paste on the version of Maxine they expect to see. The one who survived.

I walk up to the house. The door opens. And the illusion begins.

The moment I step through the doors of Mason’s house, I’m hit with the scent of fresh garlic bread—the whole house smells homey. It smells like love and safety and it makes my chest ache.

Shelby’s laugh echoes from the kitchen, warm and syrupy, and Mia barrels into the hallway like a tiny, overexcited wrecking ball.

“You’re here!” she squeals, wrapping her arms around me before I can fully close the door behind me.

I squeeze her back, grounding myself in her energy, even as the buzzing under my skin refuses to settle.

“You’re late,” she accuses, mock-glaring. “I was about to assign the baby your name as punishment.”

“You’d name a child Maxine just to spite me?”

“I’d do worse,” she grins. “I’d give her your middle name too.”

I groan dramatically. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re stalling. Come on. Everyone’s already seated. ”

She drags me by the hand like a little kid pulling their older sister into a secret fort. Her grip is strong, confident, anchored in this strange new world where she fits perfectly.

The dining room is golden with candlelight and Shelby’s setting down a bowl of roasted potatoes, looking radiant and exhausted in equal measure, her bump stretching her pale blue blouse.

Mason sees me and nods, and for Mason, that’s damn near affectionate. He doesn’t know how to be around me after I came back, always worried that he’ll say or do something that will crack me wide open.

“Max,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement as Brando stands to pull out a chair for me.

I take my seat between Mia and Shelby. Across from Brando. Who sits to the right of Mason, who’s halfway through his whiskey and probably already regretting this little family gathering.

“You’re late,” Brando says, not looking at me as he takes his seat. “I was about to bet you’d ghost us entirely.”

I arch a brow. “I’m here. I can see that no-one died of starvation.”

Shelby snorts into her napkin. Mia leans into me and whispers, “He’s grumpy because I told him he can’t name the baby after a mafia saint.”

“Which aren’t real,” Mason adds, not looking up from slicing his steak.

Mason points his fork at me. “What about you, Max? Got any cute names for your niece? Something dark and vengeful to carry on the tradition?”

I roll my eyes but the corner of my mouth twitches. Just slightly. These people—they’re chaos and violence wrapped in dysfunctional loyalty, but they’re also mine. In their own twisted way .

Conversation flows. Food gets passed around. I let myself soften just a little.

Until I hear his name. Saxon. I don’t even catch the whole sentence. Just the sound of it. One word, dropped like a nail in my stomach.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.

“I still don’t trust him,” Mason is saying. “He’s playing both sides. Always has.”

“You think he’s reporting back to the Feds?” Brando asks.

“He is the Feds,” Mason growls. “He just wears our blood like armor when it suits him.”

My grip tightens around the fork, white-knuckled. I keep my eyes on my plate.

Mia notices. Of course she does. She watches me like she watches everyone—quiet, curious, too smart for her own good. But she doesn’t say anything.

“You’re quiet,” Shelby says softly, nudging my arm with hers like she’s trying to anchor me. “You okay?”

I blink. For a second, I forget where I am.

The clink of cutlery. The muted hum of conversation. Wine glasses catching candlelight like they’re holding something sacred. I force a smile. One of those tight, brittle ones that doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Just tired,” I lie. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Shelby nods, but I can feel the way her gaze lingers.

The way her brows pinch just slightly. She doesn’t believe me.

No one at this table does. They won’t say it out loud, but the stiffness in my shoulders, the way I keep twisting the napkin in my lap like I’m wringing out my own nerves? It doesn’t go unnoticed.

I take a long sip of wine—too much, too fast. It scorches down my throat and pools in my stomach like poison. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the sound of laughter, of harmless chatter, of life happening all around me .

But I’m not here. Because Saxon North isn’t just the Fed who plays nice with the Gatti brothers when it suits him. He’s not just the man with the badge and the loaded stare and the impossible choices.

He’s the ghost I carry under my skin. The nightmare I keep pretending was a dream. The one I can’t wake up from.

He’s the man who undid me with a whisper, who shattered every boundary I’ve ever tried to build. And now? He’s everywhere. Even in this room, at this table, in this moment—he’s here. Even when he’s not. And that’s the worst part.

I tilt the wine glass again, desperate for numbness. It burns less this time. Or maybe I’m already too far gone to feel it.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

I chant it like a prayer, a spell, a desperate plea. I smile when someone cracks a joke. I nod when Shelby leans in to gossip. I pretend I’m fine so convincingly that I almost believe myself.

But underneath the calm exterior is a warzone. Because I know what this is. I know what’s coming. Saxon isn’t just a memory—I can feel him circling again, closing in. Whether it’s fate or punishment or some cruel game the universe plays when it’s bored, I don’t know.

All I do know is this: I didn’t survive him the first time. And I sure as hell don’t know if I’ll survive him a second time.