Page 44 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

T ime’s a cruel bastard in a place like this—it stretches and bends until it breaks you in half.

Until silence becomes a predator. It doesn’t just hang in the air—it clamps down on me, thick and sour, pressing against my ribs like it wants to crush the breath from my lungs.

It reeks of my own fear; I can taste it—metallic and bitter.

I told myself I wouldn’t panic. That I’d stay calm.

Think smart. Wait for a way out. But that lie is unraveling fast. Each second that ticks by with my wrists taped to this goddamn chair, each breath that drags across raw, burning lungs—it chips away at whatever control I thought I had.

My heart pounds a frantic beat, like it’s trying to outrun the truth.

And the truth is this: I’m not waking up from this nightmare. This isn’t a bad dream I can blink away or some problem I can solve with charm or logic. This is real . It’s a reality that leaves bruises and breaks people.

My skin is raw—screaming from where the tape has chewed into my wrists and ankles. I’ve twisted, yanked, fought until I’ve gone numb from the cold. Not from the basement draft, but from the creeping, bone-deep awareness that I might not get out of this.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel brave.

I was doing better. Finally. I’d found my rhythm. Started laughing again, sometimes. I was piecing myself back together with trembling fingers, one fragile fragment at a time.

And then fate showed up with a fucking sledgehammer.

I should’ve known better. Should’ve known the past doesn’t stay buried, especially not when the monsters remember your scent.

My head drops back against the chair, eyes scanning the darkness above, trying to find something solid to hold onto. Something that isn’t fear or fury or the way my ribs ache with every shallow breath.

Instead, I find Saxon.

Not really him—just the phantom version I carry behind my eyelids.

The version that used to offer safety in silence, protection in chaos.

The version that I was just discovering.

I shouldn’t think of him now. Not when the world’s about to remind me exactly what kind of currency a woman like me is worth.

But he’s there anyway. The memory of his voice.

The weight of his stare. The way he always looked like he wanted to destroy everything that ever hurt me.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most. That just when I started to believe I could be more than a statistic…

I’m back here. Taped to a chair in a place that smells like a bad ending.

And still—still—I think of him. He’s all I can think about. I think of the storm that might be coming. I wonder if he’s coming. But that hope? It’s a dangerous thing. It’s a blade that cuts deeper than whatever they plan to do to me.

The door at the top of the stairs yawns open with a sharp, sudden clang that echoes in the dark. I hold my breath as my body goes still .

I hear them before I see them— multiple loud voices that filter down the stairs, reaching my ears. Their footsteps march down the stairs, steady and slow, like a warning. Like a countdown I don’t want to reach the end of.

The chair beneath me groans as I shift to get a better look. My hands are numb, but I can still feel the sting where the tape cuts into my wrists. Every heartbeat slams against my throat like it’s trying to escape. It’s too loud; too fast.

The air feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on my chest, but worse than that is the overpowering scent of masculine cologne—strong and suffocating. It sticks to the air, to my skin, and curls in my nose until I feel like I’m going to throw up. It smells like power and hunger, and it’s everywhere.

They move toward me like kings—untouchable, merciless, forged in violence.

There are five of them. Each step they take echoes like a death knell, heavy boots eating up the distance between us.

My heart stutters, skips, then slams back into rhythm with a force that rattles my ribs.

Dread coils through me, slow and suffocating, like a serpent tightening around my spine.

They don’t speak. Their presence alone screams power—it doesn’t beg or threaten. It takes, claims, then crushes. And I’m caught in their sights, the ground shifting beneath me as they close in like a storm dressed in tailored suits and violence.

My captor steps forward, arms spread like he’s unveiling a new sports car instead of a living, breathing woman chained to a chair.

“Gentlemen,” he croons. “I give you the girl you all missed out on first time around—the prize that slipped through your fingers when Altin Kadri got greedy and kept this one for himself.”

My stomach lurches. That name. It slices through me like a jagged knife. My captor knows it. He wants me to react. I force myself to go still .

They approach one by one—deliberate, silent, like predators sizing up prey already caught in the trap.

Their eyes cut through me like knives. Sharp, glittering with hunger—there’s a devouring in their gaze.

A promise of what comes next. And though I try not to flinch, not to shrink, I feel my insides coil tighter with every step they take.

I wish I could say I recognize them—from the first auction.

But I don’t. That time’s a blur of chains and cold floors, of leering faces and laughter that scraped against my skull like razors.

A sick dream stitched together by trauma and adrenaline.

My mind did what it had to do to survive—it erased what it could. Filed it under do not open .

But him? My captor? There’s no forgetting a man like that.

He made sure of it. He didn’t just enter a room—he claimed it.

Like the air bowed to him. Like cruelty was stitched into his DNA.

And the moment he stepped into my world, I knew the rules had changed.

Because he doesn’t look at me like I’m human.

The first man is tall, lean, almost skeletal, with hands too delicate for anything but harm. He smiles at me like he’s already imagining what my insides look like. I look away, trying to hold myself together.

The next wears a pristine suit with gold cufflinks, his hair slicked back like he’s a villain in a boardroom drama. Most likely, he is. His eyes don’t settle on my face. They track the curve of my hips, the arch of my spine, like he’s appraising property. Cold. Calculated.

“It would’ve worked in your favor to clean her up a little before we arrived,” says the man in the crisp suit, turning his gaze toward my captor with barely concealed disdain.

The third man—twitchy, younger, maybe early thirties—mutters something under his breath. His lips barely move, but his eyes never leave me. He stares like I might vanish if he blinks.

Then there’s the last one. The fourth man. He doesn’t speak. He just breathes —loud, labored, foul. Built like a butcher’s block with a neck too thick for his shirt collar and scarred hands that look like they’ve only ever known how to bruise and break.

“This is your moment to make a move,” my captor says, voice smooth and venomous.

“High bids only. She’s not just inventory—she’s a rare find.

One of the few who made it out yet still ended up back on the block.

And…” He lets the word hang, like it’s dipped in gold.

“Her affiliation with the Gatti family makes her a high-ticket item.”

“A bit reckless to advertise her as that, don’t you think?” the third man says, his tone jittery. “The Gattis nearly tore the city apart to extract her last time.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mr. Cufflinks sneers, flashing a grin full of contempt. “I, for one, can’t wait to use her to crush the Gattis. Knock them off their self-appointed thrones.”

His hatred for them simmers just beneath the surface, obvious and ugly. I don’t know what his beef is, but one thing’s clear—he’d pay good money for the pleasure of vengeance.

“This is exactly why I kept the auction private,” my captor says, with a clap that echoes too loud in the space.

“I trust you’ll all honor your NDAs, no matter who wins.

” He rubs his hands together like a man about to unwrap a gift, and a slow, vile grin creeps across his face.

“Shall we begin? First number that makes me forget the stage—she’s yours. ”

They start circling. It’s strange. Surreal. They move in slow, deliberate steps around me, like predators unsure if their prey is still breathing. No stage this time. No lights. No forced nudity. But I’m still on display.

They’ve seen me before—maybe not all of them, maybe not clearly—but they came here for a reason. They have an agenda. And somehow, standing here fully clothed feels even more exposed than the first time I was sold.

The fourth man, Mr Thickneck, steps in first. Of course he does.

“Let me sample,” he grunts.

“No,” my captor says, voice flat. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

The man huffs a joyless laugh. “Then I’m not bidding.”

“Suit yourself,” my captor says, turning to the others.

Mr Thickneck reaches for me. I jerk back. The chair scrapes violently. My heart slams against my ribs, my teeth bared like an animal.

“I said no ,” my captor repeats, louder this time. “Bid highest and she’s yours to do with as you wish. Until then, no touching and no sampling.”

But the man doesn’t stop. He continues to advance on me, until a loud bang echoes through the basement.

The sound is an explosion inside the quiet. For a moment, I think it was inside me; fear, clutching at my walls, begging to be released. Then I feel it. Warmth. Not mine. His.

It’s blood. It splatters across my face in a hot, wet spray. It drips into my eyes. Into my mouth. I gag. I scream, but it’s a sound that gets strangled halfway up my throat.