Page 75 of The Vagabond

He swallows hard. His voice cracks.

“I’d keep breathing, but I wouldn’t be alive. I’d go back to that version of me I thought I buried in the field outside that castle—the one who doesn’t feel, who doesn’t care. The one who pulls the trigger and doesn’t blink afterward.”

His hand reaches out, fingers lacing with mine like a lifeline he’s terrified to let go of.

“I’d burn everything,” he whispers. “Every man. Every building. Every oath I ever took. I’d reduce the world to ash if it meant keeping you from turning into a headline.”

His eyes lock on mine—devastated, dark, real.

“I’d stop being someone you could love… and start being someone the world should be very afraid of.”

31

MAXINE

Idon’t think Saxon North would lie to me. I really don’t. And yeah, I know how that sounds. Crazy. Naïve. Borderline delusional. But still—something in my gut insists on this one thing - he wouldn't lie. Not to me.

Omit? Absolutely. Conceal things behind those cold, heavy silences of his? No doubt. But straight-up lie? No. That doesn’t feel like him. It’s not his style. Saxon doesn’t bother with manipulation. He’s a sledgehammer, not a scalpel. If he wants to cut you open, he does it with truth. Brutal, bleeding, unvarnished truth.

So when he looked me in the eye and told me he found a vial in my apartment—tucked away like a silent promise—I believed him. No hesitation. No questions. Because somewhere deep in my marrow, a part of me already knew.

And ever since, I’ve been treating Zack like he’s contagious. Avoiding him. Dodging his messages. Blocking his number like it might somehow cleanse my phone of everything he’s touched. Only to unblock it again five hours later because guilt’s a stubborn bitch, and part of me still clings to the idea that maybe—just maybe—I’d imagined it all. That Saxon got it wrong. ThatZack was still the guy who listened to my every word and didn’t push when I wasn’t ready to take our relationship further.

Knowing what Zack is capable of twists everything inside of me. The knowledge scrapes at a raw, feral edge deep in my chest — a part of me that doesn’t care about logic or kindness or history. A part that just knows: I’m prey, and he’s the predator I was foolish enough to mistake for a friend.

So I start staying later at work. Picking up extra shifts at the coffee shop just to avoid going home. I tell myself I need the cash, but that’s a lie I can stomach.

The real reason? I don’t want to be alone. Because if he comes back… I don’t trust myself not to let him in.

And still, Zack has been relentless.

Sweet texts at odd hours.

“Just checking in :)”

“Miss your face.”

Sad puppy-eye glances from across the street. Like I’m the one doing the hurting.

He even started showing up at the café again—ordering the same drink he always does, acting like there’s still something soft and unbroken between us. But there’s not. There never was. Whatever existed between me and Zack? It wasn’t real. It was bait.

I know there’ll come a time I’ll have to face it. To face him. But the part of me that’s still raw and cracked and stitched together with trauma hates confrontation. So I stall. I deflect. I procrastinate like it’s an Olympic sport.

But tonight? Tonight, the universe decides I’ve run out of rope.

It’s closing time. The last of the customers have trickled out, and I’m wiping down the counters, trying to pretend the knots in my stomach are not from dread, because tonight, I’m the last one leaving the coffee shop and I’m on my own. When I lock thedoor behind me and step out into the night, I know immediately. He’s waiting. Because I feel someone else’s presence near me.

Zack leans against the brick wall across the street, one foot propped up behind him like this is a goddamn rom-com. His arms are folded. His head tilts like he thinks he's still charming. But there’s something coiled beneath his posture—something that makes my skin crawl.

He straightens when he sees me, flashing that easy smile. The one that used to make me feel seen. Now it just makes me want to run the other way.

“Thought I’d walk you home,” he says.

My fingers curl tight around the strap of my bag. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” His voice is soft, persuasive.

I nod once. Careful. Measured. Neutral enough not to raise suspicion, but not so detached that it makes him curious. Because I can’t afford to misstep. Not with the night folding in around us like a noose and no one close enough to hear me if I scream.

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