Page 9 of The Vagabond

My pulse fluttered. His voice was low. Measured.

“You trust her?”

Altin chuckled.

“She doesn’t bite…anymore.”

Devon’s eyes never left mine, watching me curiously.

“That so?”

That night, I was left with him. Alone. Just like I had been given to others so many times before. That night, it was Devon Walsh’s turn.

In the gilded bedroom they used for showings—white sheets, hidden cameras, and the swirl of incense making me gag.

It was just me. And him. And the war between trust and terror pounding in my chest. Because Altin Kadri didn’t just give you away. He watched. He was meticulous like that. Sadistic in the quietest way possible. He liked to observe what happened when you thought you were unobserved.

And I knew—deep in my bones—that he was watching now.

That somewhere behind a pane of one-way glass or a camera hidden in a bouquet of roses, he was sitting with a drink in his hand, waiting to see if I would fail.

Waiting to see if I would betray myself.

Or Devon.

I sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, hands folded tight in my lap like a good girl on her worst night.

I could feel the heat of Devon’s presence as he stepped into the room, closed the door behind him with a soft click. He didn’t speak or move toward me. He just stood there, watching. Like he knew we weren’t alone and that Kadri was waiting for blood.

Then, softly—like a ghost slipping beneath the surface of a dream—he started walking toward me.

Lifted me by the shoulders. Slid his fingers down my bare arm. Leaned in as though to kiss my neck. I shivered as he moved closer still, and whispered into my ear.

“I’m FBI.”

Two words. Two detonations. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. My heart hammered, but I was cautious, because Altin was good at playing games, testing me.

He leaned in closer. His lips grazed my ear.

“He’s watching. Play along.”

My eyes stung. My jaw tightened.

“It’s a test,” he said. “Kadri is testing my loyalty. He wants to see the hate. The disgust. Make him think you’re as repulsed by me as the rest.”

I stared at him. “And if I can’t?”

“We both die,” he said flatly. “Or worse.”

I knew he was watching.Kadri. That sick, smiling, sadistic bastard. He was on the other side of the two-way mirror, nursing a drink with that signature calm, probably stroking the ring on his finger like it was a trigger. This was his game. His theater. And that night, I was the show.

I felt the cameras in the walls. I felt his eyes in my spine.

I flinched when Devon touched me. I had to. It was instinct, yes—but it was also strategy. Kadri needed to believe this. Every breath, every blink, had to sell the illusion that I hated every second of this.

Devon Walsh wasn’t like the others. I knew that now. But it didn’t matter. Not that night. No matter how gentle his hands felt under the mask of aggression, how carefully he cradled my arm even as he pretended to grab it—this was still a stage, and if we fucked up our lines, the curtain would fall with blood.

I turned my face away when he leaned in because I had to. Disgust. Revulsion. The performance of survival.

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