Page 54 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

I ’m perched on the edge of the sofa, knees drawn to my chest, shivering under the blanket Saxon tucked around me.

My skin feels wrong — stretched too tight, too thin — every bruise a burning ember under the surface, pulsing hotter the longer I sit still.

We drove for hours through the dead of night, deeper and deeper into nowhere, until we reached this little cabin buried in the woods.

It’s so tucked away, so hidden, I doubt it even shows up on a map. In a strange way, that makes me feel safe. Like the world can’t touch us here, and the monsters can’t find me in this pocket of silence.

But under the comfort is a shadow — a gnawing unease that crawls through my bones. We’re so far from everything. So far off the grid. If something happened now, if we needed help… no one would come. Not quickly, anyway.

But I understand why Saxon brought us here.

He had no choice. We needed distance — from the city, from the carnage, from the bodies left strewn in that dark basement.

Because there’s going to be hell to pay for what happened tonight.

Bureau hell. Political hell. I know it. I can feel it, thrumming under my skin like a second heartbeat.

But for now, we’re here. And all I can do is shiver beneath this blanket, wondering how long this stolen moment will last before the outside world crashes back in.

Across the room, Saxon fumbles through a med kit — gauze, antiseptic, needle, thread. His hands tremble. I’ve never seen him like this.

Saxon North, the man who hunts monsters like it’s a calling, can’t even look at me without his jaw clenching, his chest heaving like the weight of me might crush him.

He kneels in front of me, fingers grazing my knee.

I flinch — just a flicker, just a ghost of a reaction — but it’s enough to make his face twist like I’ve gutted him.

“Max,” he rasps, voice cracked and ruined. “It’s me, baby. Just me.”

I lift my gaze, even though one eye’s almost swollen shut.

“I know,” I whisper, my voice a thread. “I can’t help it.”

He dips the cloth in warm water, wrings it out, and gently touches it to the gash on my arm.

The sting sears deep. I suck in a breath, biting back the sound.

“God, I’m sorry,” he chokes.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

“No,” his voice cracks, thick with grief. “Nothing about this is fucking okay.”

My trembling fingers lift, brushing his hair — desperate to anchor myself in him.

“You came for me,” I breathe, voice shattering.

His shoulders quake. His eyes squeeze shut .

“I would’ve torn the fucking world apart to get to you,” he whispers, like a promise, like a curse.

I want to tell him everything, need to — the filth, the chains, the sale that nearly ended me — but the words snarl inside, strangled by memory.

His thumb brushes over my temple, wiping at the blood near my hairline. I wince.

“I thought I was going to die there,” I whisper, small, ashamed.

His hands still, shaking hard. “Max…”

“He sold me,” I breathe, hollow and breaking. “I was hours away from disappearing again. If you hadn’t come…”

Saxon’s fists snap tight, veins standing out, chest rising like he’s fighting to stay caged.

He sets the cloth down, breath ragged, eyes dark. He picks up the needle and thread, fingers trembling.

“I’m going to stitch you up now, okay?” His voice is low, raw, barely holding together.

I nod, eyes burning as tears press forward. The needle bites, sharp, cruel. I don’t even flinch. But Saxon does. My pain slices straight through him.

“You survived,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You fucking survived, Maxine.”

“Only because you didn’t stop,” I whisper. “Because you always come for me.”

When he’s done, his fingers graze over me, feather-light, terrified — like if he touches me wrong, I’ll dissolve.

He leans in, forehead pressing to mine, breath shaking against my lips.

“I’ll never let you go again,” he murmurs, voice sharp as a blade. “I will burn the whole fucking world before I let anyone take you from me.”

My fingers clutch at his shirt, weak but desperate .

“I want to stay here with you,” I whisper, voice breaking.

He slips his arms under me, lifting me from the sofa. I gasp softly, but I don’t pull away. My head drops to his shoulder, feeling the frantic thump of his heart under his chest. He carries me to the bed, lowering me with a reverence that splits me open.

I’m not fragile. I survived hell. But I’m so so tired. He tucks the covers around me, brushing my sweat-damp hair back.

My eyes find his, heavy, burning.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs, voice rough, frayed.

My fingers twitch, reaching for his.

“Stay,” I whisper. “Please… stay.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. He crawls in beside me, boots still on, blood still staining his clothes. His arm wraps around me, anchoring me, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his chest, voice trembling.

His lips press to my temple, arms tightening.

“You’re safe now, baby,” he breathes. “I’ll never let them near you again.”

My eyes drift shut, breath catching on a sob.

“I knew…” I whisper. “I knew if I just held on a little longer… you’d come.”

His chest shudders under my cheek, his body tense.

“I’ll always come, Maxine.” His voice breaks. “Always.”

I curl into him, small, trembling, feeling every crack, every scar, every raw edge between us.

“You will,” I whisper.

And then I feel it — his tears, hot, silent, falling into my hair as he holds me tighter, tighter, like if he lets go even for a second, I’ll be ripped away.

But I won’t. Ever. Not with the way he wraps around me like a vow.

When I wake, it takes a moment to remember where I am.

For a breath, I lie there blinking, heart pounding, not sure if I’m still a prisoner in the dark, still chained, waiting to die.

And then — the soft click of a door closing. My head jerks up, eyes darting toward the sound. Saxon steps into the room, moving with the kind of quiet that comes from a life lived in shadows.

I hadn’t even felt him leave the bed. Now he’s back — his hair damp, his clothes changed. A black hoodie hugs his shoulders; joggers hang low on his hips; his feet move silent in worn runners.

My gaze drops to his hands. There’s a fresh split healing across his knuckle. I swallow hard, pulse flickering. He fought for me. Killed for me.

And standing there, still carrying the weight of everything, he looks like a man who’d do it all again. Without hesitation.

I sit up slowly, every inch of my body aching. My throat’s raw, my ribs throb, bruises I hadn’t even realized blossom dark and deep. But the strangest thing? I feel safe.

Every nerve in my body goes still the second I see him. My fear — the kind that should still be roaring — fades. The part of me still trembling isn’t the part afraid of dying. It’s the part that still wants to be touched by him.

“What time is it?” I croak.

His voice is soft, rough like gravel, smooth like a secret.

“Too early for you to be up, princess.”

His words wrap around my heart like a warm blanket. I glance around — wood-paneled walls, a fireplace, a table with a handgun resting on it like a centerpiece. His bag on the floor. A coffee mug, half-drunk. And windows — no curtains, just glass, with trees stretching out in every direction .

No one would ever find us here. Not unless he wanted them to.

“Is it safe here?” I ask quietly.

His jaw tightens. “You’re safe with me no matter where you are, Maxine.”

“You killed them all.”

He doesn’t answer. And that silence — that heavy, raw silence — is the loudest confession he could ever give me.

I look down at my hands, still trembling slightly. But it’s not from fear. It’s from knowing this man — this lethal, beautiful, terrifying man — would burn the whole world to keep me safe.

“You don’t regret it,” I whisper.

“No,” he says, voice low. “I only regret not doing it sooner.”

I should be horrified. But I’m not.

He takes a step closer, slow, cautious, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

He kneels beside the bed, his breath uneven, his eyes lifting to meet mine. And those eyes — God, those eyes — they’re nothing but wreckage and devotion and guilt.

Something inside me splinters. I reach for him before I can stop myself, my fingers brushing his cheek, grazing over the stubble, the faint bruise beneath his eye.

I press my forehead to his. Our breaths tangle.

“You scared me,” I whisper.

“I scare myself,” he breathes.

“I hated you.”

“I hated me too.”

“I still want you.”

That breaks him. His hands lift, cradling my face with a gentleness that trembles.

He doesn’t kiss me. He just rests there — forehead to forehead — like this, this , is all he’s ever needed.

“I’ll always want you,” he murmurs, voice barely there.

“I know,” I whisper. “I’ve always known.”

His lips brush my cheek, a ghost of a touch.

We stay like that — two broken bodies, in a wooden box, in the middle of nowhere. The storm outside has passed. But inside us? It rages quietly. And maybe that’s what love really is — the silence between our scars.