Chapter 27
The house greeted us with a hush so profound, it felt as if the world had paused at its threshold. Beyond the creaking door, silence pooled the way it only can in a place this remote.
I take a step inside and just… stop.
The place smells of cedar, leather, and something warm and lived in.
Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams stretch overhead.
The walls are all-natural wood and stone, textured and imperfect in a way that feels honest. Everything’s rich but minimal—thick rugs underfoot, a leather sectional that belongs in a whiskey ad, and a fireplace that demands attention even when it’s not lit.
There’s no TV in sight, just the peace of good design and windows that pour the Hill Country right into the room.
“This is…” I trail off, turning in a slow circle. “This is insane, Hex.”
He drops the keys in a dish near the door and glances over at me. “Good insane?”
“The best kind.”
He reaches for my overnight bag and heads down the hall. “Bedroom’s this way.”
Hex disappears down the window lined corridor with my belongings.
I trail behind him, feet sinking into velvet carpet, stepping into a room that whispers bedtime stories with a wicked twist. The bed is massive, all dark wood and soft linen.
Windows frame a sweeping view of the enormous trees outside—towering oaks and knotted cedars with branches that twist like old hands.
He sets the bag at the foot of the bed. “Hope it’s not too presumptuous that I figured we’d share a room.”
I lift a brow. “After whisking me out to the middle of nowhere with your arms, your bourbon, and your woodsy candle smells? I’m all yours.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Fair.”
I fold my arms across my chest and square my stance near the foot of the bed. “Okay. Here’s the deal. If we’re doing this, I’ve got needs.”
Hex glances up from where he’s unzipping one of his bags. “Needs?”
“Air conditioning at sixty-eight. Non-negotiable. I wake up in night sweats more often than I care to admit.”
He stands, tossing a hoodie onto the nearby chair. “Done. I sweat too.”
“I need the side closest to the bathroom,” I say, circling around the bed, pressing my palm against the mattress to test the give. “Because aging is brutal, and I get up to pee. Twice. Minimum.”
“Understood.”
“And I sleep in a fortress of pillows.” I reach for the tote of pillows I brought in and start stacking them on my side. “One between the knees, one behind the back, one I hang onto for dear life. Helps with the aches and pains. Don’t judge.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I pause with a pillow tucked under one arm, eyeing him. “Also, sometimes I wake up talking. Or snoring. Or both. Getting older isn’t exactly a seductive transformation.”
He crosses the room at a casual pace, posture loose but attentive, and rests his shoulder against the doorframe. “I think that’s cute.”
I shake my head, a short, embarrassingly me, snort escaping before I can stop it. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t heard it in action.”
He smiles, easy and steady, then steps forward and grabs one of my pillows, fluffing it with an exaggerated seriousness. “Well, I guess we’ll both find out soon enough.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead in mock despair. “You’re not ready.”
He shrugs. “Try me.”
Sliding the pillow onto the bed, he brushes past me in the process.
“You’re talking to a man who wears compression socks on long drives and cracks his back every time he gets out of bed.
I’ve started stretching before sleep, chasing peak performance in the sport of unconsciousness.
So, trust me when I say our boats look so similar they might as well be the same. ”
I laugh, and it surprises me how good it feels. The tension between my shoulders starts to loosen, inch by inch.
Since our conversation in the truck, my realization grows, strengthens with each passing moment—he gets it.
Aging jokes and sleep quirks aside. He accepts my guardedness.
The weariness that has built up after years of being the one who holds everything together.
The understanding from him makes me think I don’t have to do that with him.
I could let go—really let go—with someone.
The idea of dating, of getting close enough to let someone see the raw, uncurated version of me… it’s always felt like a risk I couldn’t afford. But standing here, with him, in this quiet house tucked away from the world, that risk doesn’t feel quite so terrifying.
Getting intimate again—truly intimate, walls down, breath for breath—doesn’t feel impossible anymore.
It might actually be good.
Really good.
We head back out to the kitchen that glows soft in the overhead light.
It’s clean, serene, and warm in a way that doesn’t feel accidental.
I halt near the island, eyes drifting over the exposed shelving, the dark slate countertops, the old butcher block built into the cabinetry.
Every detail looks custom, handpicked by someone who knew exactly what kind of peace they were trying to build.
“This place is…” I turn slowly, taking it in again. “It’s an escape?”
Hex pours two glasses of water from a filtered carafe chilled in the fridge, then leans against the counter opposite me. “Peace is hard to come by. Took me a long time to afford the kind that doesn’t come with strings attached.”
“Did you grow up in Stillwater Bend?” I ask, curious to learn more about him.
He shakes his head. “No. Town called Red Bluff. About fifteen miles south.”
“Close enough to count, but far enough to keep secrets,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t laugh, just nods.
“I never knew my dad,” he says. “JT’s my half-brother. His dad stuck around for a little while longer than mine, but men never really stayed in our house. My mom had a thing for the wrong ones.”
His jaw tenses, and I know where this is going before he says the name.
“The worst of them, Ned Stauder.”
I set my glass down and lean against the island, facing him.
“She worked at a diner. Waitress. He walked in one night, and said he’d change her life.” He huffs. “He did that alright.”
My heart’s already sinking, but I ask anyway. “How did she die?”
“She OD’d. When I said he orchestrated everything, he had his guys stage the scene so it couldn’t be traced back to him.
Cops took one look and wrote her off as a junkie that didn’t matter.
” His nostrils flare as if reliving the memory.
The injustice. “But she’d never touched anything before him. Not one pill. Not one line.”
I allow a beat to pass, processing something I have no real-life understanding of.
“JT was ten. Bash’s age,” he says, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as if he let in a fleeting memory of his brother back when things were still innocent.
“I did what I had to. Took care of him the best I knew how at eighteen. But we didn’t have shit.
No money, no support. Then Ned showed back up.
Said there were ways to make cash fast.”
I’m engrossed by his words, but hearing this story from his mouth makes my stomach twist.
Not just because of what he lived through—though that alone is enough to wreck me—but because of the calm strength in how he tells it. There’s no dramatics. No self-pity. Just a man who was forced to grow up too fast and never looked back.
“Fighting,” he says, voice low and flat.
Almost hollow. “Started in garages that turned into cages. Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Just fists and the will to live to see another fight. Another dollar. If there were any rules, they changed depending on who had money riding on it.”
His gaze is far away now, locked on a point behind me.
“Word spread. Bets got bigger. Rounds got bloodier. I kept winning, and every win meant more cash in Ned’s pocket. He called me his golden investment.”
He stops cold, jaw clenched, throat moving with the effort of choking down whatever’s clawing its way up.
“One fight… the worst one.” His eyes flicker. “They imported a guy for the job. Hands wrapped in steel-threaded tape. Illegal as hell. Didn’t matter. Nobody monitored anything. Or if they did, they got paid to keep their mouths shut.”
His posture falters for a second, the kind of movement that says pain still lives under the surface. Maybe it always will.
“He hit me in the ribs first. I felt something give—heard it, actually. Then he went for my face. Broke my nose. Split my cheek wide open. Nearly lost my left eye. I was choking on my own blood before the first round ended.”
I cover my mouth, stomach turning. He keeps going.
“They dumped me in a warehouse after. Left me on the floor, half-conscious, bleeding out. Cold concrete under me, blood soaking through my shirt, pooling around me like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”
A beat of silence.
“But I lived,” he says simply. “And I made a deal.”
I swallow hard. “A deal?”
I watch his profile as he speaks, the hardness in his jaw, the calm behind his eyes.
He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t make sense for someone with blood on his hands.
A man who’s dangerous by necessity, not by nature.
And yet, here he is—offering me the truth.
Peeling back the layers with nothing to gain from it.
“I told Ned I’d fight him again. Same guy.
No medics. No rules. Just me and him. Everyone would be betting against me after the beating I took.
And if I survived a second time, he’d get his pay out and clear everything.
JT and I would walk. No debt, no favors.
I keep my fair cut. He never speaks my name again. ”
My voice barely comes out. “And he agreed to that?”
Hex nods once. “He didn’t think I’d survive. That’s why he said yes. Even made a few bets against me.”
“But you did.”