Page 89 of The Vagabond

I kill the cigarette in the ashtray, the ember hissing like it’s alive.

“You said you quit.” Her voice is soft. But it cuts through the air like a live wire.

I don’t look up right away. Allegra’s always been like that—walks into a room like a ghost, but sees everything. She steps around the corner, barefoot, black silk dressing gown wrapped around her like a second skin. The woman looks like sin and salvation all wrapped into one breathless fucking paradox.

“I did,” I say.

She crosses her arms. “Liar.”

I finally lift my head, meet her eyes. There’s no fear there. She’s never been afraid of me. Not even when I brought her home the first time, against her will, the spoil of a thirty year old blood oath.

“You shouldn’t be listening in,” I murmur.

“I wasn’t,” she says. “But your voice travels. Especially when you threaten to put someone in the ground.”

I smirk. “It was a warning.”

“You don’t do warnings, Scar.” She walks closer, slow andgraceful, like a lioness sizing up a wounded animal. “You do final notices.”

She stops in front of me, takes the silver case off the desk and pockets it.

“I’ll take these,” she says.

“I’ll just buy more.”

“I’ll just burn your wallet.”

God, I fucking love this woman.

I reach for her hand and pull her into my lap. She fits like she was made for me—spine straight, head tilted, mouth sharp. My opposite in every way, but the only person who’s ever matched me in will.

She rests her hand on my chest, over the place where my heart would be if I hadn’t carved it out for her years ago.

“Why is the Fed back?” Allegra asks quietly. “I thought your business was concluded after Altin Kadri.”

I nod once, eyes still fixed on the spot where Saxon North stood just moments ago.

She tilts her head. “Was he talking about Maxine?OurMaxine?”

She’s taken as much of a liking to Maxine as she has to her sister Mia. These women-they’re like the mirror image of their men, and they’ve formed a formidable sisterhood to rival any.

Her lips purse, the faintest frown tugging at the corners. “That can’t be good.”

“It’s not,” I say, voice flat. “Shit’s about to hit the fan. Hard.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me the way only she can—like she’s reading something scrawled across my skin in invisible ink.

“She’s been through a lot, Scar.”

I don’t respond. Not because I don’t agree. But because Allegra already knows I do.

She knows what it does to me—watching girls like Maxineclaw their way out of hell, only to be thrown back into the fire by men who swear they’ll protect them. She knows that kind of pain doesn’t just sit in the chest—it solidifies in my bones. Hollowed me out a long time ago. And then she does the thing that undoes me every fucking time. She leans down, slow and deliberate, and kisses me—soft, deep, unafraid. Her mouth on mine isn’t sweet. It’s anchoring. Like she’s stitching my soul back into place one breath at a time. Like she’s saying, ‘I see what you’ve done. I see what you’ve become. And I still choose you.’

It doesn’t make sense to me. It never has. But she’s the only person on this earth who can touch me like this without losing a hand.

When she finally pulls back, her fingers trace the edge of my jaw, slow and feather-light. Like she’s trying to memorize a man who’s already halfway to the grave.

“You’re not the villain they think you are,” she says, voice low, like a confession meant for no one but me.

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