Page 71 of The Vagabond

“They’ve been watching you,” I say, my voice stripped down to steel. “Tracking you. For weeks. Every time you left the house. Every time you got coffee. Every person you talked to.”

Her mouth parts. Her breath stalls.

“Who?”

“The Feds. They think you’re leverage.”

She sways where she stands, but catches herself.

“For what?” she asks.

“To get to the Aviary.”

A beat of silence passes. Then, she realizes exactly what I’m trying to say. “They want to use me.”

I nod once. “They want your help to identify the major players. To bring down the Aviary.”

Her eyes glaze. She sinks onto the edge of the sofa, hands in her lap like she doesn’t trust them to hold anything.

“They said I was compromised,” I continue, quieter now. “That I can’t make rational decisions. Thatyoumake me weak.”

“And what do you think?”

I drop to a crouch in front of her, eyes on hers.

“I think you’re the only reason I’m still human.”

She exhales—shaky, uneven. Her hands find mine. Her fingers slip between the cracks like she’s searching for something real, something steady.

“I can’t do it again,” she whispers, eyes locked on the floor like the memories might rise up and drag her back under. “I’ve already been passed around, handed over, used until there was nothing left. I can’t be that person again.”

I feel every word like a blade.

She swallows hard, voice thinner now. “I’m tired of being someone’s weapon. Someone’s strategy.”

I lower my voice. Not to calm her—but to ground it in truth.

“You’re not a weapon, Maxine.”

She looks up, and it breaks me—how much doubt lives in her eyes.

“You don’t belong to anyone.” I lean in, just enough. “But if they try to turn you into a victim again—if they so much as breathe like they own a piece of you—then I swear to God, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing they ever do.”

Her breath hitches. And still, she looks at me like she wants to believe it.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” she says.

“Then don’t be,” I whisper. “Not with me.”

She doesn’t respond. She just leans in, slow, deliberate. And when her lips brush mine, it’s not forgiveness. It’s surrender. It’s a storm breaking open between us.

I pull her closer, hands on her face like she’s the last soft thing in a world full of sharp edges.

“I haven’t touched anyone since you,” I murmur against her lips. “Because no one else exists for me. Just you.”

She closes her eyes. And kisses me like she’s still learning how to breathe in my space. Like she wants to believe this world might finally give her something that doesn’t hurt. Her eyes glisten. Her breath catches. And I lean in, without being forceful. Not demanding. Just... there. Hovering. Letting her decide. And when her lips part, when her eyes flutter shut, when she whispers my name like a secret, I kiss her.

And it feels like war.

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