Page 92 of The Vagabond

“Saxon’s going to kill you,” I snarl, my voice muffled under the cloth, barely audible. “He’s going to tear you apart.”

The man doesn’t so much as flinch as he rises to tower over me. I’m slipping fast—vision blurring, strength bleeding out by the second.

“Let him try.”

My arms weaken. My lashes flutter. The world around me begins to dim, like someone’s turning down the lights inside my skull.

No. I can’t go back to that. I won’t. Not again. Not when I just started to believe I might survive all of this. Not when I finally started to feel like myself again. Like I could build something out of the wreckage of what they did to me. Not when Saxon just started looking at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I wasn’t a thing to pity or protect—but someone to choose.

A sob breaks through my throat.

I’ll never see him again. Never get to tell him I’m not afraid anymore. That I trust him. That I was starting to love the way he watched me like he’d kill the world to keep me breathing.

It’s not fair.

The edges of my body go numb. My thoughts slow. My fingers twitch once. Then go still. My eyes blur as I stare up at the ceiling. The last thing I see is the balaclava looming above me, evil and unscrupulous.

And then—nothing. Only darkness. And Saxon’s name. Not whispered softly. But screamed inside my head, over and over, as the world collapses around me.

37

SAXON

The streetlight outside Maxine’s building flickers as I pull up to the curb, sputtering like it’s choking on its own breath. Once. Twice. Then it stutters, crackling with dying voltage before dimming into a dull, trembling glow. It feels like the world just blinked—and forgot to open its eyes again.

Goosebumps dot the length of my arms as I feel the first fracture in the night’s calm surface. The first whisper that something’s wrong. I feel it crawl under my skin—slow, cold, coiling in the pit of my stomach like smoke from a fire I can’t see yet. That kind of dread doesn’t come with noise or warning. It comes quiet. Like a held breath before a cry for help.

I kill the engine and let the silence take over.

The windows of the building stare back at me with dead eyes. But the stillness presses down, thick and unnatural. And my gut? It twists tight, screaming what my training already knows.

I’ve been a Federal agent long enough to recognize when the night shifts. When the rhythm of the world stutters out of sync. When a streetlight buzzes just a second too long. When even theshadows seem to hold their breath. That’s when you know that something’s happened and your mind is just trying to catch up with the reality.

My mind starts racing ahead of me, flipping through a slideshow of worst-case scenarios like flashcards from hell.She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. She’s gone.Every image more violent than the last, until my pulse is hammering behind my eyes.

I grip the steering wheel, hard—until my knuckles blanch white. It’s the only thing keeping me from flying out of the car like a man possessed. But even that doesn't help, because the panic’s there, crawling beneath my skin, seeping into my bones.

Because Maxine? She’s already been taken once. And the thought of it happening again—no. I can’t let myself think about that. That can’t happen again. Not on my watch.

I shove the door open and leave it hanging, engine still warm. There’s no time to be cautious. I set aside my fear and let my instincts take over. I charge toward the building, boots slamming against concrete. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the scent of fear permeating in the air. When I hit the landing, I see it. Her door—wide open. A gaping mouth in the dark.

Something inside me cracks.

“Maxine!” I bark, already closing the distance.

There’s no response. Just the cold, still air that feels wrong, so wrong.

My hand goes to my weapon. I draw it in one smooth, practiced motion, leveling it as I cross the threshold. My steps are silent now, careful, measured—because this can’t be just your run of the mill break-in. The timing’s just too off for it to be that.

The lights are off, making the apartment darker than it should be, as if the shadows are feeding off the fear in the walls. The only light is the thin strip funnelling into the room from the flickering streetlight outside.

Something smells off. Fear—fresh and sharp. The kind of scent that doesn’t need proof to exist. It just lingers.

“Maxine?” I call again, this time quieter. Controlled. But my voice doesn’t feel like mine. It’s distant. Hollow. Like I’ve stepped out of my body and I’m viewing the room as a third party.

There’s a sudden sound behind me. The floorboards creak and I whip around. But I’m too slow. Pain erupts in the back of my head like a grenade went off in my skull. A blinding, white-hot flash. My knees buckle before I can process what’s happening, and the gun slips from my grip. I hit the ground hard. The air punches out of my lungs. My vision fractures into shards.

Boots. Black. Heavy. A figure—blurry—slipping past me like a shadow with a heartbeat.

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