Page 110 of The Vagabond

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. Painshoots 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. Itwist, 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. Mybody 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.

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