Chapter 17 #3
“I’m not trying to scare you,” Mercy said.
“I’m trying to prepare you. Because when we get to that house, you need to understand what you’re walking into.
Hex is sixty-three years old, but don’t let that fool you.
He’s still dangerous. Still deadly. And he’s got every reason in the world to want you dead. ”
“Because I got his daughter pregnant.”
“Because you’re part of the world that used his daughter as a club whore.
” Mercy’s voice was grim. “In his eyes, you’re complicit.
Doesn’t matter that you didn’t know who she was.
Doesn’t matter that you care about her. All that matters is that she’s got a Silver Shadows tattoo on her shoulder and your baby in her belly, and both of those things are violations of everything he tried to protect her from. ”
I stared out the window, watching the landscape blur past in streaks of green and gray.
We were in Connecticut, the highway cutting through rolling hills and dense forests that seemed to stretch endlessly on either side of us.
The suburbs were starting to appear more frequently—exit signs for small towns with names I recognized, places that had their own histories and secrets I grew up hearing about.
“So what do I do?” I asked, finally breaking the silence that had settled between us.
“You don’t lower your guard,” Mercy said firmly, his voice taking on a more serious tone than I’d heard from him before. “You stay alert. You watch his hands at all times. You don’t make any sudden moves. And you sure as hell don’t disrespect him or his daughter in any way, shape, or form.”
“I’m not planning to,” I said, though my voice came out weaker than I intended.
“Good. Because if you do, he’ll kill you. And I’m not being dramatic. I’m not trying to scare you just for the hell of it. I mean he will literally kill you, and there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop him. Not a single thing.”
The weight of that settled over me, heavy and suffocating, like a wet blanket pressing down on my chest. I could feel my heart beating faster.
We drove in silence for a while, the miles ticking past. The sun was already well above the horizon, washing everything in the clear light of midmorning. We entered Bethlehem, and Mercy slowed down, checking the GPS on his phone.
“It’s just up ahead,” he said. “About two miles out.”
My heart started pounding harder, adrenaline flooding my system.
This was it.
This was the moment everything changed.
I thought about Brandy—about the way she’d looked that last night in Diamond Creek, her body pressed against mine, her eyes holding something I hadn’t wanted to name.
I thought about the baby growing inside her, the child I’d never planned for but couldn’t imagine not wanting now.
I thought about the impossible situation we were in, the institutional rules and power dynamics and legendary violence that surrounded us on all sides.
And I thought about Elise, and the shame I carried, and the fear that I’d fuck this up the same way I’d fucked up everything else.
But Mercy was right.
I had to fight for this. Had to fight for her.
Even if it meant facing down a man who made Sandman look like a teddy bear.
Even if it meant risking everything.
“There,” Mercy said, pointing ahead.
I looked up and saw it—a farmhouse set back from the road, surrounded by trees. It was nice. Normal. The kind of place where families lived quiet, peaceful lives far away from the chaos of the MC world.
Mercy pulled into the driveway and put the SUV in park.
And that was when I saw him.
Standing on the front porch, arms crossed over his massive chest, was a man who could only be Hex.
He was tall—at least six-three—and built like a fucking tank despite his age.
Broad shoulders that seemed to span the entire doorway, thick arms corded with muscle that hadn’t softened with time, a barrel chest that spoke of decades of hard labor and even harder living.
His hair was gray, cut short and military-style, precise and unforgiving.
His face was weathered and deeply lined, carved with age and experience like the bark of an ancient oak.
But his eyes—Jesus Christ, his eyes were sharp and cold and utterly unforgiving as they locked onto us through the windshield.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even blink.
Just stood there in the shadow of the porch overhang, glaring at us with an intensity that made my blood run cold. Even from this distance, I could feel the weight of his stare, the barely contained rage simmering just beneath that stoic surface.
This was the man who’d nearly killed Stone with his bare hands and had become club legend.
This was the man who’d spent five long years rotting in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, five years of his life stolen by a corrupt system.
This was the man whose daughter—his pride and joy, the one of the few good things in his complicated, violent life—I’d gotten pregnant.
And he looked like he was ready to tear me apart with those same hands that had nearly ended Stone’s life.