Page 40 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

T he first thing I register is the taste of blood.

Metallic. Sharp. It coats my tongue like rust. The second is the ache in my skull—a deep, pulsing throb at the base of my neck that reminds me I was drugged.

Again. My body knows it before my mind catches up.

The sluggish limbs. The queasy weightlessness. The hollow ache behind my eyes.

But I don’t panic. I’ve been here before. Not this exact place, maybe. But this feeling. The cold, airless dread. The fluorescent hum of captivity. I know what happens if I let it in—the panic. I’ll spiral. So I bury it deep, where it can’t reach me.

The light stings as I pry my eyes open. My vision flickers, blurry at first, until the shape of the room bleeds into focus.

Concrete floor. Stained rafters. I’m in a basement.

It’s a wide, empty expanse of dimly lit floorspace.

I sit facing a set of rickety old metal stairs, a faded dark red color, with a heavy metal door at the top.

My muscles ache, and I feel as though I’ve taken an excruciating beating.

That’s when I realize that my hands are bound behind my back, my wrists rubbing against each other.

My feet, too, will not move when I try to stretch them.

They’re flat against the floor, bound with tape, creating friction between my ankles.

My eyes adjust to the dim light, and as they do, a shadow moves, footsteps pacing towards me. Someone steps into the light.

Zack.

For a moment, my brain tries to protect me. Tries to twist his features into someone else—anyone else. For a breath, I still see the boy with the flirty smile. The gentle sarcasm. The illusion. But illusions die quick when you’re tied to a chair.

Because standing here now, hands in his pockets like this is the place where he’s most comfortable, is not the same Zack. His mouth still tilts in that smirk he always wore—but now it curdles at the edges. It’s not boyish or charming anymore. It’s vile. Vicious. Cloying.

And the way he just stands there, not even pretending to reach for the chains holding me down? That’s what tells me everything I need to know; that he is so much more of a threat to me than I ever imagined.

His eyes meet mine. And they are not soft. Not confused or apologetic. They are dead. Cold as slate, sharp as broken glass. The kind of eyes that only ever pretended to care. Something ancient and cruel flickers behind them—like the monster he’s been trying to keep caged finally slipped its leash.

Saxon was right.

Zack Morgan isn’t just untrustworthy. He’s not a misunderstood flirt with trauma buried under boyish charm. He is a lie. A wolf in expensive shoes. A predator wearing the skin of a nice guy. And I let him in. God, I let him in.

I want to scream. To rake my nails down my own arms for being so blind. For mistaking manipulation for affection. His cool exterior and his lazy, charming smile; it was all bait.

Who are you, Zack? What do you want ?

He steps forward slowly, like he's strolling into a goddamn therapy session.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he says, voice low. Almost sad. Fake, fake, fake.

I say nothing. Because silence isn’t surrender. It’s strategy.

He circles me, lingering casually, as though I’m not tied to a chair and my life doesn’t hang in the balance.

“I told my father it was overkill,” he muses. “Planting me in your life? You were already broken. But then he saw you at the Gatti gala. Put back together. All shiny and beautiful again. He said you needed reconditioning.”

His voice turns syrupy. Mocking. Like he’s proud of himself.

“He’s always had a soft spot for high-ticket merchandise.”

That word is like a hammer to the ribs.

“Your father?” I ask, my voice controlled. Fear slithers through my chest like a living thing. He doesn’t answer. Just keeps talking. Spinning his web.

“You started cozying up to that Fed. The broody one. I knew it was only a matter of time before he got too close. And you? You started letting him in. You couldn’t just save yourself and stay close to me…”

I can’t make sense of whether this is about me or Saxon.

“So you played the nice guy,” I rasp. “The savior.”

He shrugs. Smirks. “I didn’t play anything, Maxine. I am a nice guy.”

The laugh that bursts from me is raw. Bitter. Ugly. But it dies on a snort, because nothing about this is funny.

“Who is your father, Zack?”

He tilts his head, too casual. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

“And when I do?”

His silence presses against the air—heavy, suffocating—like a weight dropped between us that no one can lift. Because that’s when it hits me, like a wrecking ball to the chest. My lungs collapse. My stomach caves. Because I know exactly what he’s saying without uttering the words.

Whoever his father is, whatever title or power he hides behind, I know one thing with gut-wrenching certainty—I’m no safer with him than I am with Zack.

Maybe even less. And sitting here now, bound and bruised, I realize—being in his hands is like being wrapped in silk right before you’re strangled with it.

My skin recoils. My throat closes. The air turns acidic.

Zack has always known who I was. What I survived. He sought me out, did his father’s bidding - whoever the man may be - which could only mean one thing; his father is part of the Aviary. He must be. How else would he know me?

I feel sick and my stomach lurches, threatening to release its contents as Zack crouches in front of me again, his expression soft—almost gentle.

For a split second, it could almost pass for human.

But I know better now. Whatever decency might’ve once lived in him died a long time ago, buried beneath the lies, the manipulation, the hunger for control.

“I was supposed to keep you compliant. Make sure you didn’t remember too much. Or talk too loud.” He stands again, brushing off his knees. “You almost passed the test, Maxine. But you went rogue, took a liking to that damn Fed.”

“I haven’t told anyone anything,” I bite out.

His smile twists. Nasty. Eager.

“No? Then why are you playing house with him?”

Jealousy coils in his voice like barbed wire. The realization that someone’s been watching me settles deep in the pit of my stomach as it knots itself into a frenzy.

“You know what pisses me off the most?” he says, his voice laced with cruel amusement. He leans in slowly, predator-smooth, until I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “I started to like you, Maxine. And I never even got a taste. ”

His words slide like oil down my spine. And then—he makes a mistake.

He gets too close. Without thinking, I lunge.

My mouth clamps down on his ear, teeth sinking deep like a wild fucking animal.

Cartilage crunches. The taste of iron floods my tongue.

He screams—a raw, primal roar that tears through the room as he jerks backward, but I hold on.

My jaws lock like a vice, and I refuse to let go, despite his screams. He’s thrashing now, fists pounding into my shoulder, my ribs, screaming curses that barely register. And still—I bite down harder.

When he finally rips away, a wet tear splits the air—and part of his ear stays behind in my mouth.

He stumbles back, howling, one hand clutched to the bloody wreck of his ear, the other flailing for something—anything—to strike me with. But I’m already spitting the flesh to the floor, blood dripping from my chin like war paint.

My heart beats like a drum in my chest, slamming so loud I can barely hear his screams. I don’t regret it.

Let him bleed. I want him to roar. To know what it feels like to be tormented, abused.

Because I won’t roll over and be a victim again.

Last time, I went quietly. This time, I’ll go out kicking and screaming, perhaps leaving behind a battered body or two.

I’m not above doing what needs to be done in the name of self-preservation.

The pain in my ribs burns like fire, every breath sharp, every nerve lit up.

But it’s nothing compared to the satisfaction blooming deep in my gut.

He thought I was soft. Thought the binds would make me helpless.

But I’m anything but soft. And I’m sure as hell not broken. I’m fucking feral. And now he knows it.

He’s pacing like a caged animal, blood streaming between his fingers, fury curling off him in waves. I should be terrified—but I’m not. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel power. Even tied to a chair and bleeding. Even half a second away from hell. Because I hurt him.

“Guess you got your taste after all,” I rasp, voice shaking but venomous. “You don’t get to touch me. Ever .”

His groan turns into a snarl. His hand clutches the remnants of his ear, eyes wild and wet with pain. But I see it—beneath the humiliation, beneath the seething smouldering malice—there’s shame. And I’m sure it stems from me besting him, because he wasn’t expecting me to fight back.

“You stupid bitch!” he screams, dragging himself toward me, legs wobbling.

He lunges for me. But the door at the top of the stairs flies open and light floods the basement.

Zack freezes mid-step and turns toward the light.

I can just make out the silhouette of a man at the top of the stairs, before there’s a sharp slam, then the sound of heavy footsteps as he descends the stairs.

The man reaches the bottom of the stairs with a thump, pauses and puts his hands behind his back.

He’s a portrait of power wrapped in a suit that cost more than most people’s annual salary.

I know him. I’ve seen his face before, half-lit by extravagant chandeliers and filtered through the haze of expensive cigar smoke.

He was one of the bidders the night they sold me to Altin Kadri.

How could I ever forget a face like that—cold, polished, and dripping with entitlement?

I remember the way he looked at me. Like I wasn’t a person.

Just flesh. Product, meant to be bartered, traded like livestock.

Evil has a way of etching itself into your memory, like scars you stop noticing until they start to burn again.

He’s not just another suit. No, this one’s different.

Calculated. Cruel. He moves like he owns the room—and the bodies in it.

He must be one of the major players in the human trafficking ring that stole me. One of the architects of my nightmare .

His gaze flicks from me—taped, bloodied, defiant—to Zack, standing there, panting, humiliated, minus one ear.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, looking at Zack with disgust. “I told you not to play with the merchandise.”

Zack straightens too fast, wincing. “She—she bit me.”

The man sighs, steps forward, the room swallowing his presence like it’s gravity itself. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just exists, and the room bends around him.

“Of course she did,” he says simply, tone low and unimpressed. “You must have provoked her. You weren’t supposed to come down here.”

“I was managing it,” Zack snaps.

The man doesn’t reply. He just tilts his head, like a teacher watching a failing student double down on stupidity. “No. You were proving why I never should’ve trusted you with this assignment.”

Zack bristles. “I had her. She was opening up to me. She liked me.”

“Did she?” the man asks, cutting him open with the question. Then he turns his black eyes back on me with my bloody mouth, before his eyes fall to the ground where Zack’s ear lies. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Zack glares at me, all pretense gone. “You’re going to pay for that, Maxine.” He moves again, fury behind the stumble. But the man’s arm shoots out, catching him square in the chest.

“Leave.”

Zack blinks. “What?”

“Get out,” the man repeats. “Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

Zack looks between us—anger, humiliation, something dark brewing behind his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he spits, low and venomous, pointing at me. “You only get round one. ”

I don’t look away. “Don’t forget to take your ear with you,” I singsong after him.

He storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.

And then it’s just me. And the devil in the suit. The silence stretches. Suffocates. Then the man exhales, almost thoughtfully.

“I apologize for him,” he says. “He was always a weak one.”

He crouches in front of me, calm, composed, like he’s chatting over coffee.

“But I am not weak, Maxine. I’m not careless. And I do not make mistakes.”

His smile is slow. Final.

“So, let’s try this again. Shall we?”