“I have to know what happened. It’s my shop,” I whisper, following him in. “You can stay out here.”
“Bitch, please,” she mutters. “If you die, who’s gonna narrate the sequel to your filthy little love story? No. I’ll take a bullet for you. You’ve got multiple orgasms left to live.”
I ignore the ridiculousness that is my best friend.
The front of the shop is a mess. A table’s flipped, my vintage rug crumpled and crushed underfoot, and all the carefully placed details—sculptures, trays, bowls—have been tossed everywhere.
Hex sweeps through it methodically, clearing each space as we move behind him. His body tense. Protective.
When we make it into the workshop, air is stolen from my very lungs.
The three-piece antique armoire—the one I’ve spent weeks restoring, hours carving, gluing, and shaping with care—is destroyed. The center door lies in shards. One of the legs is completely split. Deep gashes cut through the delicate scrollwork I showed Hex just two days ago.
Something between a gasp and a sob escapes my throat. I didn’t even know such a wretched sound lived inside me.
Hex turns immediately. “Shit,” he says, stepping toward me, his voice suddenly gentle. “Sable,fuck,I’m so sorry.”
Tears spring to my eyes as I crouch near the ruins. “This is commissioned work. It’s already sold. I don’t even know how I’m going to explain this to the client.”
“I should’ve handled this better from the beginning,” Hex says as he strokes a hand down his chin. His eyes sweep across the damage as though every wrecked piece is proof of his failure.
“Hex,” I breathe, voice trembling. “This was never your—”
His head turns, and his brows pull together just slightly, eyes narrowed with intent. His jaw tightens, but it’s not clenched in anger, but firm with conviction.
“It was always my problem,” he says. “The second she made you feel unsafe, it became mine.”
Demi, still crouched near a shattered drawer, throws a hand in the air. “Thank you! Now go full John Wick on this psycho. Fucking break this bitch’s neck.”
He ignores her. His attention is focused on me.
“I’m worried about you and your son’s safety,” he says, voice low but firm. “Close the shop for the day. Pick up Bash. Go home. Don’t bring him here. Don’t let him see this.”
I nod, trying to breathe through the knot forming in my throat. “I will. I’ll file a police report before I leave and call Andrew to explain what’s going on. Maybe start the process for a temporary protective order.”
Hex blows out a breath, the kind you release when the truth is on your tongue but better left unsaid. “You think a piece of paper is going to stop her?”
“It’s a step,” I say, sharper than I intend. “I have to try the legal way first. I’m not dragging Bash into something that could blow back harder because I skipped protocol.”
His jaw ticks as if he doesn’t agree, but he respects my wishes. “Andrew should file one too,” he says after a beat. “Keep her away from both of you, and more importantly Bash. But I don’t want you at your place tonight. Not alone.”
Hex glances up at the corner of the room, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got cameras. I’ll have JT pull the footage. If we’re lucky, we can get a clear shot of her and hand it to the cops. Confirm everything with evidence.”
Demi’s eyebrows lift. “Wait, he can just, like… jump into someone’s cameras? That’s scary.”
Hex expels something close to a laugh. “You have no idea how scary someone as smart as JT can be.”
I blink at him, still in shock by everything happening around me. The chaos claws through my brain.
“I’ll take the weekend away from the bar,” he continues, wrapping a warm hand over my white-knuckled fist gripping my phone. “Will and JT can handle things. Come to the Hill Country with me. Just you and me, and the quiet. Space to breathe while we figure out the next step.”
Demi steps up beside me, placing her hand on my back. “You should go,” she says softly, surprising me. “You need to go.”
I look at the wreckage around me. The shattered armoire. The ruined front.
And I nod.
I want peace. I want protection.
