Page 39 of The Vagabond

“Because I’ve got enough people protecting me. I don’t need the man who broke me playing savior now.”

I nod, even though every part of me wants to push the door open and shove my way into her life.

“Okay,” I say, voice rough. “I hear you.”

She stares at me for a long, aching beat. Then she steps back into her apartment and slams the door in my face. And I let her. Because it’s the first time I’ve seen her choose herself. And fuck me, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I don’t rememberthe drive home.

Just the blur of headlights cutting through the early morning fog, the screech of tires as I take the turn too hard. The wheel jerks in my hand. The world tilts. I welcome the chaos.

Her voice is still in my head. Lodged there like a bullet I can’t dig out.

“Don’t hover. Don’t care about me unless you’re willing to stay and clean up the mess you made.”

She’s right.

Fuck, she’s right.

I pull up to my apartment like I’m driving a stolen car on fire—crooked, half on the sidewalk, bumper scraping against the curb like it’s trying to hold me back.

I stumble inside, shove the door shut behind me hardenough to rattle the frame, and just stand there for a second. Listening.

To nothing.

Just the hum of the refrigerator. The quiet throb of the blood in my ears. The silence is so heavy it feels like a noose.

I drop my jacket. Don’t bother with the lights. The room is gray-blue with morning light bleeding through the windows. Cold. Unforgiving.

I pace. Tight lines, over and over, like I’m trying to wear a hole into the floor. My jaw’s locked so tight I feel it pop. My hands are fists. My body wants violence.

But there’s no one here to hurt except myself.

I see her. Everywhere. Her face in the window reflection. Her eyes in the shadows. The way she looked at me this morning—like I was the edge of the trauma she’s still dragging behind her.

I hate it. I hate that I ever made her feel that way. I hate that she’s right to want me gone.

Savage fury swells in my chest like a fire with nowhere to go. I knock a chair over. It splinters against the wall. A glass flies next. Shatters. The lamp follows, crashing to the floor in a flash of sparks and sharp edges.

The sound helps. But not enough.Nothing will ever be enough.

I drop to my knees in the middle of the kitchen, breathing like I just ran through hell barefoot. My fists are bleeding. I don’t remember hitting anything, and I don’t care if I did.

I stare down at the blood on my knuckles like it owes me an answer. Like maybe if I bleed enough, I can make this right. But nothing rewinds time. Not even this.

I should’ve stayed. Should’ve burned Kadri’s castle to the ground and carried Maxine out over my shoulder if I had to. I should’ve told her I was real. That what happened between us was real—even if it started as a lie. But I didn’t. I left her there. Drugged. Half-conscious. In the hands of monsters.

And now she’s back, standing on her own, stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for. She’s fire and grit and trauma molded into something fuckingbeautiful. And all I can think about is the feel of her skin under my hands.

That first night. The soft curve of her waist. The goosebumps that followed my touch like they were afraid of what would come next. The way she breathed against my neck like she was learning how to survive again, one inhale at a time.

I remember her pretending it didn’t hurt. And I remember pretending I wasn’t already falling. Because I was. God help me, I was. I’ve had bodies. I’ve had heat. I’ve had skin and sweat and moans and teeth marks. But I only remember her.

I bury my face in my hands. My breath comes ragged, broken. I don’t just want to protect her. I want to undo the world for her. I want to erase every scar. Every scream. Every second she ever thought she was disposable. I want to give her something good, even if it kills me. But what if I’m not the protector? What if I’m the fucking predator? What ifI’mthe reason she can’t sleep at night? That thought splits me wide open. Leaves me raw and hollow and cold in a room full of my own wreckage. Because I would burn down cities just to keep her heart beating. But maybe I’m the smoke she can’t breathe through. And that? That’s the part that kills me.

17

MAXINE

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