Page 55 of The Vagabond

SAXON

S he touches me first.

Just a brush — the barest graze of her fingers across my jaw, soft and trembling — but it shatters something inside me.

I’ve been careful. I’ve been good . Or at least, I’ve tried. But there’s nothing good in the way I want her. There never was.

And when she whispers, “I still want you” — in that voice, thin as a thread, shaking with hurt and hunger, sounding like confession, like surrender, like a desperate, aching prayer — I come undone.

The leash snaps. The lines blur. And I kiss her like she’s always been mine. Like she was always meant to be mine.

Her lips part on a gasp and I take it—take her—like it’s my last breath, like I’m finally feeding the hunger I’ve been harboring for years. My hands grip her waist, hard, greedy, unforgiving. She doesn’t pull away.

She claws at my shirt, fisting the fabric, dragging me down onto the mattress like she wants to bruise me with her need. This isn’t soft or slow. It’s warfare.

Her thighs part beneath me and I settle between them with a groan that sounds more like a growl, one hand buried in her hair, the other hiking her shirt up, desperate for skin. When my fingers meet the bruises along her ribs, I freeze.

She doesn’t. She surges up, bites my lip, dares me to keep going.

And I do. Because she’s fire and fury and I’m sick with the need to consume her.

I rip my shirt over my head. Her nails rake down my chest. I shove my sweats low enough to be out of the way, then do the same to hers.

She’s soaked. Ready. She wraps a leg around my waist and yanks me forward.

“Don’t be gentle,” she pants.

I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. “I missed you so damn much.”

And then I thrust. Hard. She gasps. Clutches me. Digs her nails into my back like she’s holding on to the only real thing left in the world.

I don’t move at first. I just stay buried inside her, jaw clenched, trying not to come undone too fast. Because she’s perfect. Tight. Hot. Wrapped around me like we were made to fit like this—in rage, in ruin, in love. And then we move. Fast. Brutal. Messy.

She kisses like she wants to hurt me. Moans like a war cry. I fuck her like I need to mark her from the inside out—like I can erase every touch that came before me. Every hurt, every pain, every wound.

Every thrust is a vow. Mine. Mine. Mine. Her name leaves my mouth like a curse and a benediction all at once. Max. Maxine. Fuck, baby.

She arches beneath me, mouth open in a soundless cry as her climax hits her—violent and raw. Her body tightens, pulses around me, and I can’t hold back any longer.

I groan into her neck, press my mouth to her skin as I empty into her, shaking, breathing fast, falling apart inside her like this is the only way I know how to show her I love her without ruining it.

We collapse. Still tangled. Breathless. I don’t move. Our bodies are slick with sweat, our chests pressed together, hearts hammering in perfect sync.

We lie in silence. In the quiet that comes after the storm. The kind that settles into your bones when there’s nothing left to fight.

I brush the hair from her damp forehead. She’s already drifting, curled into me like she’s found the only place she trusts. And maybe she has. Maybe I’m it. I press a kiss to her temple. So soft she doesn’t stir. Then I whisper it. The truth I’ve never dared say until now.

“I love you.”

Her breath catches, even in sleep. And I know she hears me.

The water runs hot, curling down our skin in rivulets, steam thick in the narrow glass walls around us.

I kneel in front of her — head bowed, chest tight, heart thrumming like a war drum in my ribs. I press my mouth to the bruises scattered along her ribs, the split on her hip, the scraped skin on her shoulder.

Every kiss feels like a fucking apology. Every kiss feels like a failure. If I could press hard enough, love hard enough, maybe the marks would disappear. Maybe the ghosts would fade. Maybe I could erase the hands that hurt her, carve my own name over every inch they touched.

My lips trace the yellowed bruise on her thigh. The dark smear across her ribs. The angry bite of the zip ties on her wrists.

She shudders, eyes fluttering shut, breath catching as I press my mouth to the inside of her elbow, the hollow of her throat, the curve of her collarbone.

God, I want to swallow everything that’s hurt her. Every ounce of pain. Every memory. Every crack.

My hands tremble on her hips as I drop my forehead to her belly, breath breaking on a ragged exhale.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against her skin, voice splintering. “God, Maxine… I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her fingers slide into my damp hair, soft and aching.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers.

But it doesn’t matter. The guilt is stitched into me. The way it always will be.

I rise slowly, mouth brushing up her sternum, her throat, along the sharp line of her jaw. And when her eyes meet mine — wide, raw, trusting — something inside me tears.

“I’ll kill every last one of them,” I breathe, voice low and savage. “If they ever come near you again, I will kill them one by one.”

She leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine, her trembling matching my own.

“You already saved me,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t understand. I’ll carry this like a wound, like a promise. I want to.

I kiss her then — slow, desperate, reverent — water streaming down our bodies, steam curling around us like a shroud. And for one long, shuddering moment, it feels like we’re safe. Safe inside the wreckage of each other.

We move from the shower in a haze, steam still clinging to our skin.

I wrap her in a thick towel, hands lingering on her shoulders, her back, her hips — I can’t help it. I can’t stop touching her. If I stop, if I let her slip away for even a second, I’ll lose my goddamn mind .

She sinks onto the bed, still trembling, towel clutched tight. Her skin hums under my hands. I kneel at the edge of the mattress, running a hand through my wet hair, breathing hard.

Then — her fingers wrap around my wrist. A soft, trembling pull.

I let out a shaky breath and sink down beside her, elbows on my knees, head dropping forward like the weight pressing down on me is finally too much.

For a long moment, we sit like that. Silent. Wrapped in damp towels, wrapped in all the things we can’t say out loud.

Finally, she whispers, “You should lie down.”

I turn my head, eyes finding hers — raw, open, stripped bare.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” I murmur. “Not yet.”

She shifts closer, lays her head against my shoulder.

I feel the tension pull tight inside me — then, slowly, achingly, let go.

“You don’t have to stay awake to protect me, Saxon,” she murmurs.

God.

She doesn’t know. I can’t not .

I let out a jagged breath, staring down at my hands.

“I have to,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Because the fear of waking and not finding you here guts me, Maxine.”

Her face tilts up, lips brushing the edge of my jaw, tasting salt, tasting exhaustion.

“You can’t carry it all,” she whispers.

My hand lifts, cradling the back of her head, fingers threading into her damp hair.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” I whisper.

And fuck, she looks at me like she wants to save me. But she can’t. No one can.

She kisses me — slow, trembling, soft — a promise without words, without conditions. And when we finally pull back the blankets and crawl beneath, bodies drawn together, hearts still pounding, she burrows close, her breath warm on my chest.

For tonight, just tonight, I let myself believe the world outside can’t touch us here.

That for one stolen, fragile moment, we can survive inside the silence twisting between us.