Page 63 of The Vagabond

SAXON

T he clock on the wall clicks louder than it should. The chair’s uncomfortable. The room’s too beige. There’s a plant in the corner that’s definitely fake. I’m tempted to ask about it, just to fill the space. But I keep my mouth shut.

Across from me, the woman watches — legs crossed, pen poised but not moving, eyes locked on me like she’s got nowhere else to be.

She always lets our sessions run long. She never watches the clock. It’s like she’s feeding on the unraveling, waiting for the next jagged piece of my story to fall out, even though she already knows how it ends.

She’s not here to fix me. She’s here to witness the slow-motion collapse. And we both know it.

“Tell me about her,” she says.

I shift in my seat. Jaw tight. Heart twitching like it still doesn’t know how to beat gently when anyone mentions her.

“Which part?”

“The part you can’t let go of.”

I stare at the window. The city moves on outside. Horns. Wind. Life .

Inside me? It’s still her. Always her. I’ve tried to let go, but damn, it hurts.

“I used to dream about killing the men who touched her,” I say, voice flat. “Then I stopped dreaming and just… did it.”

The therapist doesn’t flinch. Points for her.

“But that’s not what keeps you up now,” she says. “Is it?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands locked together like they’re holding something back.

“It’s that I left her,” I whisper. “In Albania. I walked away from her when I should have stayed and saved her.”

“Why did you leave?”

“My job. I was called on assignment. By the time I could get back, she was already gone.”

My throat tightens at the memory, sharp and sudden, like a ghost’s hand wrapping around it. I don’t know why I can’t get past that fucking time in Albania.

I went back to there, desperate, frantic — clinging to the hope she was still alive.

That maybe, just maybe, I could find her, get her out, pull her back from the jaws of the hell Kadri had thrown her into.

But when I got there, she was gone. And Kadri?

Vanished too. It would be many months before I caught up to him again.

I was yanked onto another assignment before the dust even settled — a new mission, a new target, but her absence followed me. Every damn day, every sleepless night, she was there.

In the back of my mind, in the pit of my stomach, in the ache that never eased.

And then, by pure, goddamn chance, I saw her again. Standing in a prison waiting room, waiting to visit her uncle — Mason Ironside.

I swear, the sight of her nearly brought me to my knees. She turned, her eyes locking on mine, and for a split second, the world just…stopped.

Her face drained of color, her body swaying like she might faint on the spot.

And me? I nearly collapsed, right then and there — because she was alive.

She was alive. Alive, breathing, standing, still carrying fire in her veins, still the woman I’d been chasing through every nightmare and mission since the day I left her.

But when she looked at me…she looked at me like she wanted to drive a stake straight through my heart. And maybe I deserved it. Hell, I probably did. But God, seeing her — just seeing her — was the closest I’d come to feeling human in months.

The therapist is quiet. She lets the silence hang like a noose between us, waiting to see if I’ll tighten it myself. And I do. Because I can’t help it. Because every time I close my eyes, it’s not just her face I see — it’s the look she gave me.

That gut-wrenching flash of recognition. That raw, carved-out betrayal. Like she’d rather watch me burn alive than breathe the same air.

I scrub my hands over my face, rough, biting into my own skin.

“I should’ve torn the fucking world apart for her,” I rasp, voice shaking. “Instead, I followed orders. I left her in the hands of monsters, and then I pretended I was doing my job. Pretended I could live with my betrayal.”

My chest feels tight, too tight. My lungs burn like they’re folding in on themselves.

I drop my head forward, hands trembling between my knees.

“She was just a name on a file at first. She wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But this is Maxine we’re talking about; her presence is louder than any words, any warning, louder even than every rule I swore I’d follow.

She walked into my life, and suddenly, everything I thought I could control started unraveling at the seams.”

The therapist’s voice is soft, steady.

“You love her.”

I let out a sharp, hollow laugh.

“Love doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

I lift my head slowly, eyes raw, throat scraped bloody with the words I’m choking on.

“I see her in every quiet moment. I hear her in the silence. I carry the weight of what I didn’t do —what I should have done —every goddamn day.”

I pause, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“And the worst part? The worst part is knowing that even if she forgives me… I don’t know that I can forgive myself.”

The therapist leans forward just a little.

“What is it you want, Saxon?”

I suck in a breath that feels like glass.

“I want to be the man that deserves her. One who earns the right to stand beside her. I want to be better than the monster who left her in Albania instead of pulling her into the light.”

My fists tighten, nails biting into my skin.

“I don’t want to be her savior. I want to be her safe place; the man who never lets her down again.

” My voice cracks, low and raw: “She’s the reason I haven’t put a bullet in my own head.

I’m still breathing because of her. And I am so goddamn terrified…

that I will never be enough to make up for what I took from her. ”

For a moment, the room is quiet. The clock keeps ticking. The therapist doesn’t speak right away. She lets the words hang there, raw and jagged, between us. Then, gently — so gently it almost makes me flinch — she asks a question I’m not sure even I know the answer to.

“Saxon… why are you telling me this? ”

I blink, throat tightening. “Because it’s what you’re paid to hear.”

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharp, cutting through every wall I think I still have.

“No,” she says softly. “You’re telling me because you’re safe. Because I’m not her.”

I suck in a breath, my chest tightening, fists curling in my lap.

“You sit here,” she continues, voice low but relentless, “and you bleed all this guilt, all this love, all this regret — but the one person you refuse to give your honesty to is the only one who needs to hear it.”

I shake my head, jaw clenching.

“She doesn’t want to hear it. She can barely look at me.”

“Have you given her the chance to hear it?”

I stare down at the floor, heart hammering so loud it’s all I can hear.

The therapist leans forward, elbows resting lightly on her knees.

“I’m not going to tell you how to be a better man, Saxon. That’s not my job. But I can tell you this — no amount of penance you pay in this room will change the fact that she’s still out there, wondering why the man who set the world on fire for her won’t come stand in the ashes with her now.”

I feel something break inside me. A breath I didn’t know I was holding shudders out of my chest, ragged, sharp, like it’s scraping its way through old wounds.

“She deserves better,” I whisper. “She deserves more .”

The therapist’s voice softens. “Maybe she does. But what if the only person keeping you from giving that to her… is you?”

The silence between us stretches, pulsing. And then, quietly, she says the thing that punches straight through my ribs and tears me open :

“Tell her, Saxon. Call her. Show her you’re not done fighting for her. Because right now? She doesn’t need you to be perfect. She just needs you to show up.”

The door clicks shut behind me. The world outside feels too loud. Too sharp. The sun is blinding after the dim beige quiet of that therapy room.

I shove my hands into my pockets, shoulders tight, head down, heart hammering like it wants to punch through my chest. I walk without a destination in mind— just moving, breathing, trying to process the wreckage I’ve been carrying.

Maxine walks into a room, and I feel like I’ve been standing too close to a fire —one I want to burn me. I want it in my skin, under my ribs, etched into my goddamn bones.

She undoes me without even trying. With a glance. With a breath. With the way her mouth pulls tight when she’s trying not to break.

She’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive while ripping me apart at the same time. And the worst part? I’d let her do it all over again. I’d let her shatter every piece of me, just for the chance to stand close enough to feel her warmth.

I stop walking. Let the truth settle. Let the weight of it press into my chest until I can’t tell if it’s pain or pleasure I feel.

She’s my end and my beginning. She’s the only thing I’ve never been able to control, and the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.

I want to be better. For her. With her. I want her fury. I want her forgiveness. I want every cracked, imperfect piece of her, and I want her to have every wrecked, bleeding inch of me.