Chapter 24
[Hex]: If this is bad, baby... I hope I never feel good again.
The words are still lingering on my phone screen, and I’m still hot from reading them when I hear it—
The low, unmistakable growl of a motorcycle rolling up outside.
My chest lifts. My pulse kicks up.
He’s here. So quick.
I smooth the front of my shirt, completely aware that I’m not exactly dressed to seduce—dust on my leggings from sanding earlier, a fitted tee that’s seen better days—but that doesn’t stop the rush running through me.
There’s something about Hex that short-circuits every reasonable thought in my body.
Excited. That’s the word. I’m excited. To see my murderer boyfriend, apparently. The one man who has made my life infinitely less terrifying just by existing. The juxtaposition that thought brings to my attention cannot be ignored.
The second I see him, my throat goes dry. I unlock the door just as he swings a leg off the bike.
He’s wearing a slate gray T-shirt, snug across his chest, sleeves hugging just enough to frame the angel wing tattoo that arcs over his bicep.
The muscles underneath look indecent. Black jeans hug thick thighs that I have very vivid memories of clutching.
Worn boots. Heavy steps. That cocky smirk that says he already knows what I’m thinking.
“Hey,” I manage, moving aside to let him in.
Hex steps into Thorne Revival with quiet purpose. His pace unhurried, as if my space has earned his respect. His gaze moves across the room, taking in the furniture, the soft light pouring through the front windows, and the paint-stained drop cloth I keep forgetting to fold.
“You did all this?” he asks, voice low, a little awed.
I nod, proud despite the nerves kicking around in my gut. “Yeah. The front room’s mostly finished pieces for sale. The pieces I find on the side of the road or specifically buy to flip. No one sees potential in them until I drag them home and work my magic.”
He moves to a refinished cabinet closest to the front window.
It’s a tall art deco beauty with soft blue lacquer, gold hardware, and a new marble top I nearly broke my back hauling inside.
He moves his fingers across the edge, gently, as though the piece holds a consciousness he doesn’t want to disturb.
“This one’s beautiful,” he murmurs.
I smile. “She was a disaster when I got her. Warped legs, chipped veneer, smelled like cat pee. But I could see it, you know? The beauty. Under all that mess.”
He glances over at me and says, “My mom would’ve loved this.”
A warmth blooms in my chest. “Yeah?”
He nods. “We didn’t have much growing up, but she loved old furniture.
Said if you couldn’t afford something new, you could still find something with history and make it yours.
She moved through junk shops like they held relics, not bargains.
Picked pieces that had stories, not hefty price tags.
Our cramped apartment barely fit it all, but she kept filling it with stuff like this.
Things she cleaned up, polished, patched. ”
He looks back at the cabinet. “She gave everything a second chance like it cost her nothing… but it cost her everything.”
My chest squeezes. There is something about the way he says it, soft but rough around the edges. Like memories, still living under his skin.
I clear my throat. “Reminding you of your mother… not exactly the vibe I aim for with men, but I guess I can roll with it.”
He turns his head to me and he lets out a sudden, deep laugh, the kind that escapes before you can think to hold it back.
“You don’t remind me of her,” he says, stepping closer. “You remind me of how much she would’ve liked you.”
I blink at that, not sure what to do with the warm ache in my throat.
He glances away, gaze settling somewhere far off. “She had terrible taste in men, though.” There’s an edge in his voice, worn down and honed sharp by time.
He lets the silence stretch before adding, “The man the detective asked about. Ned Stauder. That wasn’t just some distant acquaintance to me.”
I feel my breath catch, readying myself for what truth might fall from his lips.
He stares at the cabinet, avoiding my eyes, as though its stillness might anchor what’s coming apart in him.
“He’s the one who took her life,” Hex says quietly.
The words land with a weight I don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry.
“Drugs, money, whatever excuse made it easier for him to sleep. He watched her die that night. Orchestrated the clean-up of the whole thing like she was just another problem to erase. She tried to leave him. To pull us out of his orbit. He didn’t like that.”
My hand instinctively moves, resting against the edge of the counter beside me. I don’t speak. I know better. I let him talk.
“He came sniffing around not long after. Said she’d gotten in too deep, made some poor choices. Said he’d take care of me and my brother. Said he ‘owed her that much.’” His jaw muscles work. “What he really meant was we belonged to him.”
He finally looks at me, eyes darker now. Not with rage but resolve. “I fought our way out. Bled for it.”
I manage a small nod because anything more might unravel the delicate thread of truth he just exposed.
He draws in slowly, steadier now. “That’s why I don’t play games with people like Dillinger. Or men who think they can buy silence, buy survival. I know what happens when they think no one’s watching.”
His voice dips. “I watch.”
I step closer before I even realize it, pulled by the gravity of him. I wrap my arms around him. A quiet moment stretches between us, the air shifting as his hand comes to rest gently at my back. Not pulling me closer. Just… letting me stay.
I hold him a little tighter.
Jesus.
Ned Stauder killed his mother. Swept him and his brother into that life, as if they were part of the damage control.
I can never begin to imagine growing up—let alone surviving—in that world, surrounded by men who deal in violence like its currency. But Hex did. And he got out, built something, protected his brother, and somehow, he’s still capable of… this. Of warmth. Of humor. Of holding me with meaning.
I ease back just enough to look up at him. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For telling me.”
His eyes meet mine, and there’s something unspoken there. A trust he didn’t owe me but gave anyway. And it settles in my chest. It’s an ache, but not the bad kind. The kind that lets you know someone just gave you a piece of their truth.
I offer a little levity, nudging the mood gently. “Most of my work is commissioned,” I say with a nod of my head. “Want to see what I’m working on now, actually?”
“Lead the way,” he says, voice stripped of any lingering edge.
I turn, and his gaze trails after me like a touch I can almost feel.
The workshop is as much in disarray as I probably look. Dust floats lazily in the air, tools strewn across my work bench. Self-conscious, I tighten my hair tie, and adjust my smudged reading glasses still perched on top of my head.
If he notices my mess, he doesn’t seem to mind.
I lead him to the massive piece I’ve been pouring my heart into all week. A three-section antique armoire, early 1900s, with hand-carved floral detailing and cracked molding I’ve been painstakingly restoring with a scalpel and a prayer.
“It takes finesse,” I explain, gently brushing a finger over one of the scrolls. “Too much pressure and you destroy it. Too little and you don’t fix anything. You’ve got to repair it without erasing what makes it special.”
When I glance back, Hex is looking at me in that stunned way people do when something hits too close to home.
“That’s how it feels with you,” he says quietly. “Like something delicate. Something I don’t want to break by doing too much or not enough.”
I swallow, caught off guard by how hard those words land.
He closes the distance, the eye contact burning with intensity. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” he says, voice rough and tingling through my torso. “I owe you a birthday redo.”
I let out a dry laugh, my brow shooting up. “You mean the birthday where I found out my boyfriend’s killed people while simultaneously being blackmailed with photos of me giving very enthusiastic head. Photos so graphic they’d probably get Ruin's End flagged by the county health department?”
His smirk is slow and shameless. “That one.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, Big Guy”—I pat his chest—“but thirty-nine-year-old women don’t exactly have wild expectations for birthdays, let alone redos.”
His hands settle on my waist, guiding me toward him as though I’ve always belonged there.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs. “And did you call me your boyfriend?”
My heart jumps. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that? I just assumed I’m the only chick he’s banging that he’s exclusively told about his side hustle.
He’s close now, closer than I should be letting him get when I still have voices in my head whispering, you’re being watched.
There were photos.
A threat.
But nothing’s come of it. No new messages. No new chaos. Maybe Hex really did take care of it.
What if he killed her?
I’m about to pull back—say something self-deprecating or joke about Ashley’s radio silence being the result of her murder—but then his lips brush mine, and my body decides for me: shut up.
I let the kiss happen.
But he picks up on my hesitation.
Instead of deepening it, he slows. Softens. His hand comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, kissing my forehead, and lingering just long enough to steal my breath again for an entirely different reason.
When he pulls back, his eyes flick up to my hairline. “You always wear these on your head?” he asks, tapping the pair of glasses still perched there.
I smirk. “There are lots of little intricacies, ailments, and failing parts you’ve yet to discover, Hex. I’m a full-time restoration project.”