Page 35 of The Vagabond

I think of the missing socks, the towel folded wrong, the shampoo bottle that went missing a few days ago. I knew something was off. My gut was screaming, and I didn’t listen.

I scrub harder.

“I hate you,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I hate you, Saxon North. Devon Walsh. Whoever the fuck you are. I. Hate.You.” Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll start to believe it.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. Try to rub the filth out of my brain. But all I see is the way he looked at me in the dark—like I was some holy thing he’d crawl through hell to touch.

He should be in prison.

I should call Brando. But I don’t. Because if I tell Brando, I’m back in the cage. Back under lock and key. Back in that suffocating, velvet-lined safety the Gattis call protection. And I can’t go back there. I won’t. I’ve been on my own less than a month, and I won’t concede to failure.

I turn off the water. Step out shaking. My hands are red. My arms are scratched. My neck still feels like it’s holding his phantom breath.

I barely sleep the rest of the night. I leave every light on. I check every room twice. I move the knife block to my bedside. I tuck a screwdriver under my pillow.

Paranoia is a disease that feels a lot like déjà vu. Except this time, it’s not just about being watched. It’s about knowing who’s watching me. And still not knowing what I’ll do when I see him again. Because deep down, under the fury and fear and rationaldisgust…A part of me wants it. A part of me wants him. And that part? That’s the part I’m terrified of.

The walls are closing in.

I can’t. I can’t fuckingbreathe.

My vision’s gone spotty, and my chest is tight, like there’s a fist wrapped around my lungs, squeezing harder every second. My hands are shaking so badly I drop the cup of water I was trying to sip from. It hits the tile floor and shatters in an explosion of glass.

I curl in on myself on the cold bathroom floor, back against the door, knees to my chest, fingernails digging into the fabric of my jeans.

I can still feel him.

Not his hands—not physically. But hispresence. Like it’s soaked into my skin. The way Saxon looked at me last night, like I was a ghost. Like I was the past reaching out to strangle him. And maybe I am.

The room spins. I gasp in a breath, but it won’t stick. It just bounces off the inside of my ribs and vanishes, useless. My heart pounds like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.

My fingers fumble for my phone. I don’t want to call anyone. But I don’t want to die like this either. Because this feels more like dying than anything else. My thumb hovers. Shakes. Then I press Mia’s name. It rings once. Twice.

“Max?” Her voice is sharp, alert, like she’s already getting to her feet.

I can’t speak. I try. All that comes out is a ragged, high-pitched inhale that sounds like a dying animal.

“Mia—” I choke. “I… I can’t—breathe?—”

“Where are you? Max, where are you?”

She screams down the phone line and I tell her that I’m at home.

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

The call ends. I cry harder.

Mia lets herself into my apartment twenty minutes later like she’s a whirlwind. She barrels in with Tayana right behind her—dark braid, gold hoops, eyes sharp with concern.

Mia’s arms wrap around me before I can form a word. Her voice is steady but low, like she’s trying not to cause me any further distress.

“Hey. Hey, baby sis. You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

I shake my head against her shoulder. “It’s not okay.I’mnot okay.”

I haven’t cried in front of Mia in months. Maybe longer. I didn’t want to be the mess anymore. But now she’s here, and I’m breaking like a dam that’s been waiting too long to give out.

All I can feel is that tight knot in my chest. The knowing that this slip is going to ripple into every part of my life.

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