Page 32 of The Vagabond

There’s Mia — her older sister, all iron bones and razor-edged love, carrying the weight of two lost girls on her back. Mia fought every fight so Maxine and Sophia didn’t have to, and now that Sophia’s gone… she carries that, too.

Brando Gatti, Mia’s husband, is a storm wrapped in a suit — dangerous, loyal, lethal. Brutally devoted to Mia, and by extension, Maxine. He guards her like a ticking time bomb someone might try to set off. There’s no tenderness in him, not for theworld—but Maxine knows he’d burn it all down if anyone laid a finger on her again.

Then there’s Mason Ironside—her uncle. Rough. Rigid. A man full of violence and regret. He’s not soft. But he shows up. Always. The kind of protector who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel like you’re not alone.

And Shelby — his wife, his calm. She’s the warmth, the bridge, the one who helps Maxine remember there’s still light in a world that’s tried again and again to snuff her out.

And the Gattis? They’re not a family. They’re a fucking syndicate. They’ve built a fortress around her, a shield made of muscle, money, and brutal, unrelenting loyalty. She never asked for it, but they didn’t give her a choice. She’s part of their blood circle now. Because after what she survived, they closed ranks. They pulled her inside. And the Gattis don’t let go.

She moves through the apartment like she’s afraid to disturb the air, her steps soft, her breath measured. But I watch every second. Every. Single. One.

She doesn’t know it, but when she’s anxious, she hums. Some small, broken melody — the same one she used to hum in Kadri’s cage, when she was trying to hold her soul together. I know the tune because I still hear it in my sleep.

She sets her bag down, glances toward the window. She feels it. The wrongness. Her instincts are sharp — they’ve had to be. She disappears into the bathroom. The water turns on. The clothes drop. Soft. Sweet. Sacred. Like a fucking offering. And I hate myself. I hate the way my hand trembles on the vent cover. I hate the way her body haunts my memory — every inch burned into me from nights I never wanted, nights I’ll never forgive. I hate the way shelookedat me, those blue-fire eyes filled with resignation and fragile, impossible trust, when I whispered I’d protect her.

She believed me. And I left her anyway.

Now she’s in the shower, and I can hear her crying under the water. I press my forehead to the cold metal slats, close my eyes, try not to picture it. Fail.

I see her rubbing herself raw, trying to scrub away the phantom of me, and all I want — all I fucking want — is to break out of this vent, wrap her in my arms, and tell her she’s safe.

But she won’t let me in. She’d scream. She’d fight. And she’d be right to do so. Because I left when she needed me to be her last tether, her last thread of hope. I abandoned her to the dark. And so now, I watch. I bleed for her in silence.

I know her routine better than she does. I know she buys chocolate milk so no one teases her, even though she prefers strawberry. I know she hugs a pillow to her stomach when she sleeps, like it will hold all the broken pieces of her together.

When she finishes her shower, she crawls into bed. Her damp hair leaves a faint halo on the pillow. She curls in on herself, pulling the blanket high, shivering despite the warmth. And still, I don’t move. I stay hidden, heart thrashing in my chest, watching her chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

She shifts. Moans. I swear to God, I stop breathing. I could break. I could crawl out of this vent, press my body to hers, bury my face in her skin and promise her I’d destroy the world for just one more second of her trust.

But she’d probably kill me. And that’s not how I want to die.

She deserves tochoosethis. Not to be chased into it. So I stay. I wait. I bleed for her in silence. Because I’m not her hero. I’m her sin. And I’ll keep haunting her until the day she finally begs the devil to come in.

When I slide down silentlyfrom the vent, my palms hit the edge of the dresser, steadying myself. Bare feet kiss the hardwood like shadows, barely stirring the air.

I freeze. I don’t even breathe.

The room is thick with her presence —Maxine.

Shampoo and jasmine, the faint trace of sweat. There’s the restless energy of a girl who’s lived through hell and still carries the scorch marks on her soul.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. God, I want to touch her. No. Iacheto touch her.

I move closer, inch by inch, closer than I’ve dared since the day Kadri made me prove myself in the ugliest, most unforgivable ways. My fingers hover, trembling, just above her jawline. I don’t even need to touch her — her presence alone is enough to crack me open.

And then—a breath hitches. Soft. Barely there. Her lips part, and my name slips out like a wound.

“…Saxon…”

My heart lurches. My entire body goes taut. She’s dreaming of me again. I lean down, so slowly the air between us hums, and breathe against her cheek — the ghost of a touch, a cruel reminder.

She bolts upright, gasping, wild-eyed.

And those eyes — fuck, those eyes — land on mine like a blow to the chest.

“Saxon.”

She doesn’t scream. Sheswings.

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