Chapter 40
It’s been two weeks.
I keep saying that out loud, chasing meaning in the rhythm.
Maybe the right number will rest everything: my body, my brain, the way my stomach clenches when the wind hits just right.
Sometimes I think screaming might make the ingrained paranoia of the past six months go away. Strip it like bubbling paint.
The shop stayed closed for a few days after everything. I needed time. Bash needed it more. Andrew agreed to let Hex take us out to his Hill Country place for a week to get out of town, breathe different air, and change the view.
It helped.
Hex never strayed far from my side. He hovered without hovering. Tentative, gentle, in a way I never expected from a giant, rough-edged fighter. One who handled Bash with glass-blown care and treated me as if every fractured piece deserved to be rebuilt.
The time we spent together changed the three of us. We played card games until Bash got too competitive and declared himself King of Uno. Hex rigged a gaming system in the living room; a setup so elaborate, it looked ready for permanent teenage residency.
One night, we dragged every blanket and pillow we could find into the middle of the floor and made a pallet.
All three of us stayed there: me curled on one side, Bash sprawled down the middle, Hex capping the other end.
I woke up at three in the morning, to pee of course, with Hex’s hand in mine and his other arm tucked under Bash’s shoulders.
Sleep came fitfully, broken by sudden starts. A vivid dream yanking me from sleep. His arms were always there to reel me back in and calm me down. Nothing in my life ever came close to feeling that safe.
One afternoon while Bash was in the other room FaceTiming his dad, Hex and I ended up on the couch, legs tangled.
I had my feet in his lap, a glass of wine in one hand.
He had bourbon, untouched, resting against his thigh.
He hadn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes.
He was just... there. Calm. Still. Dangerous in every other setting but this one.
And for some reason, that made the question rise in my throat like it had been waiting there for far too long.
“Do you want a kid?” I asked, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.
He turned to look at me, not surprised, just thoughtful. Like he’d been expecting it.
“You offering me yours?” he asked with a smile.
I laughed under my breath. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He set his glass down, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on mine like he wasn’t afraid of the weight that came with the question.
God, I wish I could’ve made it casual with him. But it just wasn’t. Not anymore.
“I don’t think I want more,” I said quickly, before I could talk myself out of it.
“Not because I don’t love being a mom. I do.
But I’m not nearly as young anymore. Bash is everything, and I gave everything to have him.
My body, my sleep, my entire damn sense of self.
And now that I’m here,” I motion between us, “I don’t know if I want to go back to diapers and bottles and sleep schedules. ”
I looked away, maybe a bit remorseful, admitting that to him and myself. “I’m not saying it’s a forever no. But I don’t feel a yes in me either. And I needed to say it before this thing between us gets even deeper than it already is.”
He didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.
“You think that’d be a deal breaker for me?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know. You’re younger. You’ve never had a baby that was yours, and I—”
“Sable.” His voice landed with strength. Not loud. Just certain “I didn’t fall in love with the idea of starting a family. I fell in love with you. And I don’t need a biological stamp on a kid to feel the fulfillment of fatherhood.”
Tears pricked behind my eyes. Not because I was sad, because for the first time, maybe ever, I believed someone wouldn’t leave when I showed them the parts of me that didn’t bend.
“I just didn’t want you to wake up one day and resent me for it,” I whispered.
He leaned across the couch, brushed his thumb beneath my eye even though no tear had fallen yet. His voice went soft again. “You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever have. You. That’s all I want.”
It wasn’t a grand declaration. No fireworks. No dramatic music swell. But when he said it, I believed him.
Mornings were slow and warm and a little ridiculous after that.
Hex made pancakes every single breakfast. Thick, fluffy stacks crowned with whipped cream, as if the meal were a sacred ritual.
He’d hand me my plate with a smirk, eyebrow raised, leaning close under the pretense of small talk, then murmur filth that made my knees weak.
Always quiet. Always with a straight face.
“Next time I put whipped cream on something, I want it to be those beautiful tits, not breakfast.”
And in seconds, my thighs would press together, warmth blooming between them while I tried to act normal and butter my pancakes. He’d just smirk and sip his coffee, utterly unbothered by the fact that he’d wrecked me for the rest of the morning.
Hex, in time, told me everything. The same day Ashley took Bash, he stood only hours away from a fight that could’ve ended him. A fight arranged to settle debts and keep Ned Stauder from circling us like vultures.
He didn’t hold anything back. Not the threat, not the consequences, not the part where Will stepped in and bled for him.
It should’ve gutted me to know danger still surrounded us, that something as simple as loving Hex came with risk.
But it didn’t. Not really. Maybe it came down to my belief in him.
Or maybe in myself, and what I’d do to protect the people I love with everything in me.
Either way, the fear didn’t sink its teeth in the way it once would’ve. I knew danger wouldn’t just vanish from his life. He wouldn’t stop helping people who needed him.
And the strangest part of it all… how okay I felt with that.
Returning to Stillwater Bend wasn’t the crash landing I’d imagined. Mostly because Demi waited for me with snacks, six candles she swore had cleansing properties, and a ridiculous amount of restraint.
She’s toned herself down, for now. No outlandish comments in front of Bash. No loud proclamations about justified vengeance. Just a quiet whisper, buried in the corner of the shop, meant only for me:
“The Lady Punisher rides again.”
I snorted into my coffee.
Now, two weeks later, I’m finally back in a rhythm. Sort of. Bash is back at school. My doorstep no longer feels haunted. And Demi—well, Demi is back to her meddling self, which is apparently a sign that the universe is healing.
She’s currently trying to lure me out of the shop with vague promises of “a surprise that will definitely change your life.”
Andrew just picked up Bash for the weekend, and the moment they pulled out of the back of the shop, the door cracked open, Demi peeking around it with the shameless timing of someone who might have been crouched outside waiting for her cue.
“If this is another half-priced Brazilian,” I warn, grabbing my bag where the gun Hex gave me now permanently lives, “I’m not interested.”
She raises a perfectly arched brow. “Not even if I hold your hand while you get yours?”
I blink. “Why would I get one?”
“Confidence. Smooth skin. Battle readiness,” she says, deadpan.
I squint at her. “You’re hiding something.”
She clutches her heart. “How dare you. I would never—okay, fine, yes, I’m absolutely hiding something, but it’s for your own good.
And no, it’s not another waxing appointment.
That counted as a one-time coupon situation.
And trust me, lesson learned. The rash I got definitely factored into the two-star rating I gave them on Google. ”
“Does Hex know about this?” I prod her.
“Hex planned this.” She immediately squeaks and holds her hand up to cherry lips that match her hair.
I stop dead in my tracks. “He what?”
She grins. “Oops. Forget I said that.”
“Oh my God. Demi—”
“Shh. Lady Punisher, relax. Just trust me. If I were going to kidnap you for something reckless and entirely inappropriate, I would’ve brought tequila and a shovel.”
I stare at her. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“Then stop asking questions and get in the car. It’s not a far drive.”
I sigh, half-exasperated, half-suspicious. But there’s a flicker of warmth in my chest now. Something stirring beneath the anxiety, the rebuilding.
“Where are we going?” I ask again, trying to peek at her phone to see if she has GPS turned on.
She just grins. “Let’s just see if I’m really banned for fucking life.”
I blink. “Wait—Ruin's End?”
She shrugs. “I mean, you’re not. I’m the one who threatened to throw a chair at that bartender with the nice arms and emotional constipation. But who’s keeping score?”
“You’re definitely on some sort of list,” I mutter as we pull into the lot.
As soon as we round the corner, JT looks up from where he leans on the window checking IDs, that lazy, crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
“Well damn,” he says, smiling warmly. “Look who just made this place hotter by twenty degrees.”
I snort, cheeks flushing. “You always this smooth?”
He shrugs. “Only when I mean it.”
“Keep dreaming, kid.” I wink and pat him on the shoulder.
Demi loops her arm through mine, smug as hell. JT follows in behind us.
Inside, the bar hums with early-evening energy. The music is low, voices rising, and glasses clinking. We barely cross the threshold before Will clocks us and recoils, a full-body flinch, as though a bar rag just flew out of nowhere and slapped him.
“Absolutely fucking not,” he says, pointing dramatically. “Sable, you're welcome. But the pitbull has to go.”
Demi flips him off with flourish. “I missed you too, High Lord.”
He scoffs. “I still have frosting-related trauma, thanks to you.”