Page 6 of The Vagabond

SAXON - FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO

B y the time I met Altin Kadri, I wasn’t Saxon North anymore.

In his place stood Devon Walsh. Arms dealer. Phantom. A man with no past, no soul—just a cold trail of black-market deals and sleek private jets. The kind of man Altin Kadri would want at his table.

It took eighteen months of setting the stage—feeding leads, greasing palms, constructing my identity from the bones of real men I helped put in the ground.

I wore his skin like it was mine. Grew my hair out, then dyed it.

Swapped out the green in my eyes for dull, muddy brown with medical-grade lenses that stung like hell after an hour.

But they made me forget who I used to be. That helped.

I pulled up to Kadri’s estate in northern Albania wearing a suit that cost more than my first car.

The driveway curled like a serpent, lined with imported statues and littered with security checkpoints, each one manned by guards who looked like they could kill with their stony silence.

His home—a damn castle, because of course it was—rose from the stone like some ancient predator.

Opulent, but cold. Unwelcoming. It was a kingdom built for monsters.

Kadri greeted me in his private study. He looked like every villain I’d ever profiled—smile too charming, suit too crisp, hands so clean that they screamed of guilt.

He offered me a drink I didn’t touch. And stared. For a long time.

Like he could smell the Fed still clinging to my pores.

He asked about my suppliers. My routes. My preferences in weapons, women, alcoholic beverages. I answered in the tone Devon Walsh used when he was bored and rich and above consequence.

Then came the test. Because there’s always a test. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. “You want in, Walsh?” he said. “You want to make real money?”

I gave a slow, indifferent nod.

“Then prove yourself useful,” he said. “I’ve had a rough week.”

He raised two fingers. Snapped. The door opened. And she walked in.

Barefoot. Silent. Wrapped in a slip of silk that clung to a body carved thin by starvation and sleepless nights.

Her arms were folded across her stomach like she was holding herself together.

Her hair, once a vibrant blonde in the photos I’d seen, was now faded to a brittle brassy white, like even her color had abandoned her.

But her eyes—God, her eyes. They met mine. And even through the exhaustion, the trauma, the hollowed-out pain—there was still something there. A spark.

Maxine Andrade. The girl the Gatti family had been quietly hunting for nearly a year. Mafia-adjacent. Family-adjacent. A ghost the rest of the world assumed was already dead.

But I knew her name. I knew her story. And now she was here, staring at me like she was begging me not to become another monster.

I swallowed hard. Kept my face flat. Devon Walsh didn’t flinch.

Kadri stood from his desk, moved to the door like he was watching a pet perform. “She’s yours for the night,” he said casually. “Show me what you can do with her. Make her scream, Walsh. Show me you can break her.”

The bile in my throat climbed fast. I crushed it down with a smile that didn’t touch my eyes.

This is what I had signed up for. Undercover work wasn’t about lines. It was about convincing the devil you like the taste of blood.

Maxine flinched as I reached for her, just slightly—but she didn’t pull away.

I took her by the hand. It felt like leading a lamb to the altar. Her skin was ice cold. Her fingers trembled. I squeezed, gently. Then leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I’m FBI,” I whispered. “He’s watching. Play along.”

She went still. Just for a second. Then she blinked.

In the room they gave us—white sheets, gold mirrors, and too many angles—I played my part. Because I knew that the cameras were watching.

I tilted her chin, dragged my thumb across her jaw like she was something I owned, not something I was trying to save. My mouth brushed her throat. My hands moved over her hips, her back, her thighs—never too fast, never too soft.

We danced on the edge of destruction.

She fought. On cue. Just enough to make it look good. Her eyes full of venom, her nails scratching down my chest. I gripped her wrists, pinned her to the bed like every other bastard before me. Inside, I wanted to vomit.

But outside ?

I was Devon Walsh.

Unmoved. Unbothered.

I thrust against her slowly.

And felt her gasp like she’d been holding her breath for years.

Her body tightened around me—hot, wet, alive. She moaned, quick and breathless, before she caught herself and turned her face away, like she was ashamed of her own reaction.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I fucked her like Kadri wanted me to. But it was all fake. I thrust into her skin like I was thrusting into her. But my mind was somewhere else entirely.

On the plan. The cameras. The fact that the girl beneath me deserved so much better than a damn performance.

She came first.

I felt it. The way she trembled. The way her walls clenched. The way her breath caught in her throat like a secret.

And then I followed. Silent. Controlled. Numb.

Afterward, I rolled off her and sat at the edge of the bed, adjusting my tie with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

She clutched the torn dress to her chest, her eyes glassy with shame. I wanted to speak. But I had nothing to say. So I left the room without looking back. Because if I did—if I saw what I just did through her eyes—I don’t know if I’d be able to come back from it.

I told myself I saved her life that night. But as I closed the door behind me, I wondered if I’d just destroyed something inside her to do it.

Kadri told me he was leaving for three days—business abroad. And he wanted me to “guard his asset” in his absence .

“Feel free to enjoy her,” he said with a smirk. “As you can see, she’s broken in.”

I smiled like the monster I was pretending to be.

And for three nights, I went to Maxine’s room. Always at the same time. Always the same warning conveyed in my eyes.

She understood. Somehow, she understood. She was strong like that.

The cameras were definitely on. I could feel the eyes on me, even if I couldn’t see them. Hidden in the corners. Wired into the walls. Kadri was watching. Waiting to see if I’d pass his test.

If I’d use the girl like he told me to.

Maxine stood there like a porcelain figurine someone had already cracked down the middle. Her skin was pale, stretched thin over bones that were far too delicate. Her collarbone looked like it could cut glass. And when I reached for her—slow, like I was taming a feral creature—I felt her flinch.

I felt the way her breath hitched when my fingers brushed her shoulder. Not because she was scared of me, but because she’d been trained to expect the worst.

My hand slid down the line of her arm. Her skin was soft, impossibly soft, and goosebumps followed my fingertips like a shadow, rising in little waves across her flesh.

She was pretending. Pretending not to want it, acting like she was disgusted. But she wasn’t a good actress—not with me. Her mask slipped every time our eyes met, and something in her gaze pleaded with me to be different.

To be better than the others. And I wanted to be. So badly. But I just couldn’t pull away from her.

Kadri’s voice echoed in my head. “Show me what you can do with her. Make her scream, Walsh. Show me you can break her.”

So I leaned closer.

My lips hovered near her ear. I whispered, “I’m sorry. It’s going to get rough. Just… close your eyes and pretend. ”

She gave the smallest nod. And I touched her again.

Lower this time. Just enough for the cameras.

Just enough to sell the lie. But my fingers weren’t lying.

My fingers trembled like I was the one being touched.

Like she had reached inside me and found something raw and pulsing and alive I didn’t know was still there.

She made a sound—soft, broken—and my chest ached so bad I thought I might rip it open.

This wasn’t acting anymore. This was survival. For the both of us.

Her hands gripped the edge of the bed like she was holding on to her last shred of self.

Her ribs moved under her skin with every shallow breath, and I saw it there, all of it—the fight, the fear, the fire.

She wasn’t just someone’s pet. She was a whole universe, barely holding itself together.

And I was falling for her in pieces. One breath at a time.

One touch at a time. I didn’t realize it yet.

But I knew that when I left her, I wouldn’t be able to forget her. Ever.

On our final night together, we went through the motions.

I talked to her softly between the moans and muted cries, told her she’d make it out.

That someone knew she was here. That I was working on it.

That she wasn’t alone. I gave her hope. For the first time since her imprisonment, I gave her the only shred of hope she’d known.

And even as I thrust into her, over and over again, I held back—not because I wanted to, but because I needed to.

Needed to stay in her, stay with her, for as long as the moment allowed.

I delayed my own release just so I could anchor myself to her body, to the heat of her skin and the fragile rhythm of her breath.

Her heart beat against my chest like a whisper begging not to be forgotten, and I drank from her soul like it was the only thing keeping me human.

Every moan, every tremble, every flicker of pain and pleasure painted itself onto my bones.

And in that moment, I didn’t know where I ended and she began—only that I’d never be clean again.

On the fourth morning, Kadri returned. He was all smiles and back pats. “Let’s do business.”

I almost smiled. Because I knew I’d been right - he’d been watching. Nothing spells “ Fed” like a man with morals. And for three nights while he was away from his kingdom, Devon Walsh displayed not one shred of decency towards his ‘pet’.

But then the call came.

Ukraine.

A terrorist cell I’d infiltrated two years earlier had gone active.

Twenty potential casualties if I didn’t move.

My handler gave the order. I had to leave.

Now. I argued. Screamed. Raged. Because I knew that if I left, I was failing her.

Just like I’d failed Sienna. Because Sienna had screamed for me, too. And I never came.

But in the end, I left.

I promised Kadri I’d be back in two weeks.

Said I had urgent matters to handle—gun deals, I claimed.

He bought it. Or maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter.

Because when I came back? She was gone. Our paths never crossed again.

Not until I saw her standing in that visitor’s room when I went to see her uncle, Mason Ironside.