Page 82 of The Vagabond

“Always,” she whispers, and it’s not anger. It’s not even resistance. It’s foreplay.

“Good.”

I slam into her with a growl. The slap of our bodies colliding is thunderous, primal. My hands grip her hips, teeth grit, every thrust punishing—perfect. She moans like she can’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore, and fuck, neither can I.

I lean over her, one arm curling around her waist, the other fisting her hair to turn her face back toward me. I kiss her jaw. Her cheek. Her mouth. I thrust into her like I’m trying to fuck the guilt out of me, the years out of me, the loss out of me.

“You feel this?” I snarl into her skin. “Every time I sink into you? That’s what I’ve been missing. You.”

She whimpers, voice broken. “Don’t stop?—”

“I can’t stop.”

My rhythm turns brutal. My hips crash into hers with feral precision. Her hands slap against the tile for leverage. Our bodies steam and collide and tangle in the echo of every unsaid thing.

She comes again, biting my name through clenched teeth. And I follow—spilling inside her with a groan, forehead against her shoulder, hips twitching with the last shreds of restraint.

We stay like that. Breathing. Shaking. Burned clean. And Iwonder—briefly, stupidly—if this is what peace feels like. But we both know better. Peace doesn’t last in our world.

And the knock on the door, when it comes, will remind us why.

The water'sstill dripping from her skin when the knock comes.

Sharp. Repetitive. Impatient.

Three times in a row—like whoever’s on the other side of that door thinks the walls here are theirs to rattle.

Maxine freezes. I do not.

I’m by the kitchenette in two strides, naked except for the towel slung low on my hips, hands clenched into fists and every nerve in my body screaming to end someone. I already know who it is. It can only be my persistent colleagues this early in the morning. Federal agents who don't understand the meaning of “no.”

Maxine grabs her robe from the floor and shrugs it on fast, her fingers fumbling with the tie. She glances back at me, eyes dark with nerves, but she’s not afraid.

“Don’t come out,” she whispers.

“Max—”

“I’ve got this.”

She moves to the door, barefoot and still flushed from the shower, her hair damp and curling against her shoulders. She doesn’t open the door fully—smart girl. Just unlatches the lock, keeps the chain in place, and opens it just enough for a face-to-face with the devil.

“Miss Andrade,” one of them says. I recognize the voice as that of a man on the Aviary taskforce. Cocky prick with too much confidence and not enough conscience. “We need a moment of your time.”

“It’s not a good time,” she says tightly. “I have class in an hour.”

“Then we’ll make it quick.”

She narrows her eyes through the crack in the door. “If you think I’m going to invite you two into my apartment while I’m half-naked, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Silence. Then a cough. Embarrassed.

“We can wait outside while you get dressed.”

“Then you can waitforever,because I’m not having this conversation again. I told you, I have nothing to say. I’m not interested in being part of your PR campaign, your case, your numbers, your?—”

“Is someone in there with you?” one of them interrupts.

My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the counter.

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