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.
