Page 47 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

S weat crawls down my spine. Pain blooms hot and heavy in my arms. And piece by piece, my grip on sanity frays, threads pulling loose one by one.

I can’t think about what’s coming. Where they’ll take me.

The man they’ll give me to. Mr Cufflinks.

I don’t delude myself into believing there’s anything civil about the man who bid highest on me.

I got out once - I’m not sure that I’ll be so lucky the next time.

And if I know one thing, it’s that I can’t go back to being a prisoner under anyone’s thumb. Ever. I won’t be that girl again.

So I move. Slow at first, testing the drag of my skin against the tape, the give of the glue under the sweat, the way my bones grind beneath the restraint.

I start rubbing my wrists together again.

It’s awkward, hard to get the right leverage when my hands are tied behind me, but I twist, grind, pull—again and again and again.

The skin chafes almost immediately. A raw burn that should make me stop.

That would make anyone else stop. But not me.

Because every second I’m still, I get closer to that shipping crate.

Closer to chains and blindfolds and the kind of darkness you don’t crawl back from.

So I keep going.

The tape bites deeper. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the skin starts to split. I can feel it—warm blood slicking the inside of my palms as I grind my wrists together like I’m trying to erase my own fingerprints.

It hurts. God, it hurts. But pain is better than waiting. It’s better than death. Pain is mine. It means I’m still here. And I’m the one controlling it. It’s all mine.

I brace my heels, trying to press my legs outward, testing the binds on my ankles. The tape there is tougher, unforgiving. I twist anyway, toes flexing in my shoes, calves screaming from the effort. My muscles are cramping, my joints feel like they’re being torn apart, but I don’t stop.

After a while, the tape around my right wrist starts to loosen. Only a little—but enough to give me hope. A few more minutes, and the restraints peel away with a slow, sticky tear.

The sound is deafening in the silence—sharp, wet, like flesh being torn from bone. It echoes through the belly of the basement like a scream that never made it out. I freeze, heart locking in my chest, breath caught behind my teeth.

Wait. One second. Two. Nothing. No footsteps. No rusted door swinging open. Just the dim hum of the flickering light above me and the relentless drumbeat of blood in my ears.

I flex my wrists, slow and cautious. My skin is raw, slick with sweat and streaked with angry welts. My hands ache like they don’t belong to me. My arms are heavy, dead weight after hours of being twisted in place. My fingers twitch as I will them back to life.

Move, Maxine. This is it. This is your shot.

I shift in the chair, easing one ankle away from the tape. It resists—tightens—then gives. The second foot follows. Pain shoots up my calf like lightning, but I grit my teeth and push through it.

When I finally stand, my knees buckle beneath me. My legs feel boneless and my muscles tremble under the weight of my own body. I brace myself against the chair, fighting the urge to drop back into it. I can’t stop now. This isn’t about comfort. This is survival.

The exit is across the floor—rusted stairs, narrow and winding, leading up to the exit. I don’t know what’s on the other side, only that it leads up. And up means air. Up means freedom.

Each step I take toward it feels like a war. My limbs are jelly. My ribs are bruised. Breathing hurts. My head spins with every movement. But I keep going. Slow. Quiet. Determined.

The stairs loom in front of me like a spine jutting out from the floor—splintered and ancient. The railing is slick with grime and rust. I grab it anyway and begin to climb.

Not upright. I can’t.

So I drop to my knees and crawl.

One rung at a time. Shaky. Breathless.

Each creak beneath my hands feels like a countdown. Each shift in the silence makes my skin crawl. I don’t dare look down. I just keep going.

Please, God. Just let me make it to the top.

My fingers grip the final step. I’m so close I can almost taste the outside air. One more breath. One more pull—then I hear it. A breath behind me. A footstep. But how can that be? I never even saw another door.

The cold that shoots down my spine is instinctual. It’s the kind of terror that once lived with me in Kadri’s palace.

Before I can even scream, I feel a hand, cold and calloused, clamp around my ankle like a steel trap.

No.

My body reacts before my brain can process the danger. I twist, scream, kick—fighting like a wild animal—but I’m too slow. Too weak. Too broken from the hours spent sitting in that chair. He yanks me backward, dragging me down with a vicious jerk that rips a scream from my throat.

The fall is chaos. I crash down the rickety staircase like dead weight.

My spine thuds against each step, ribs scraping over metal, one shoulder taking the brunt of the impact with a sickening crunch.

My knees slam. My head snaps back. Pain erupts everywhere at once.

It’s not falling—it’s being devoured by the stairs.

Then the floor. Concrete greets me like a coffin.

The breath is punched from my lungs, a raw gasp tearing through me as stars explode behind my eyes. I can’t even scream. I’m too stunned, limbs twitching, brain skidding sideways—and then he’s on me. A shadow. A monster made of flesh and bone and every nightmare I’ve ever had. My captor.

His weight crushes the air from my chest, pressing down until my ribs scream.

His forearm pins my neck to the floor, grinding my skull against cold concrete.

I buck beneath him, thrashing, writhing, refusing to go still.

My hands are free—I use them. Nails rake across his cheek.

I feel flesh tear. Blood spills. He growls—deep, guttural, feral—and rears back just long enough to spit his venom in my face.

“Ungrateful little whore.”

Then he punches me. His fist cracks across my cheek so hard my vision shatters.

My head snaps sideways, mouth filling with blood, ears ringing like I’ve been hit by a freight train.

But I don’t go still. Instead, I slam my knee upward, aiming for anything soft.

It connects. He grunts, surprise ripping through him.

His grip loosens—just a fraction—but it’s enough.

I twist, teeth bared, ready to bite, claw, kill. Or be killed.

But he recovers too fast. His fist slams into my stomach, hard and brutal. I fold in half, the scream dying in my throat. My body convulses. Air won’t come. I choke on it, gasping like a girl drowning in open air.

My head falls back to the ground. Hard. The world dims. But I don’t black out.

“Still dreaming of freedom?” he sneers, grabbing my arm and yanking me up like I weigh nothing. I stumble, legs dragging uselessly beneath me. “There’s a fucking sold tag on you, Maxine. And I aim to collect.”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t deserve my voice. But inside? I’m screaming. Inside, I’m fire choking on its own smoke. A storm sealed inside a box.

He drags me, shoves me through a narrow passage at the back of the basement — where the light doesn’t reach, where I hadn’t even realized there was another door.

The wall’s cold, damp, rough as sandpaper against my skin. And before I can suck in a full breath, he’s on me. No urgency. No fumbling. Just the cold, methodical touch of a man who’s done this before—and enjoyed it.

The chains rattle as they wrap around my wrists, my ankles, pulling tight, dragging me back against the concrete like some wrecked marionette. My shoulders twist, wrenched at such a brutal angle I hear the sharp, wet pop of a joint giving way.

Pain explodes white-hot. I bite down on a scream so hard I taste blood. My fingers go numb. My arms throb, pinned so tightly I can’t expand my chest. Every breath is shallow, ragged, a war between my collapsing body and raw survival instinct.

The cold bites into me. Metal gnaws at my skin. The chains dig deeper each time I flinch, each time my body trembles under its own weight. Flesh tears. I feel it. Hot. Wet. Humiliating. And through it all, he watches. Silent. Satisfied. Like I’m the masterpiece in his sick little gallery.

I’m trembling. Bleeding. Barely holding on. But still—I don’t break .

He crouches in front of me, my blood smeared across his hands, his smile twitching at the edges like he can already taste his victory.

“You’re a feisty little one, Maxine,” he murmurs. “Your new master’s going to love breaking you in.”

I lift my head, one eye nearly swollen shut, vision swimming—and spit blood right at his shoes.

He jerks back, flinching, face twisting in disgust.

“Fuck you,” I rasp, voice raw, shredded, but mine .

And in that moment—bloody, chained, barely breathing—I win. Because even here, locked to a wall in the dark, I am not his. I will never belong to him.

His smirk flickers. And I feel it—the smallest, sharpest flicker of uncertainty.

Because I’m not the girl I was two years ago.

I’m not the quiet, broken thing who waited in the dark for rescue.

I’m rage with a heartbeat. I’m vengeance on bare, bleeding feet.

And I will die before I ever let another man own me again.