I allow a beat to pass, processing something I have no real-life understanding of.
“JT was ten. Bash’s age,” he says, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as if he let in a fleeting memory of his brother back when things were still innocent. “I did what I had to. Took care of him the best I knew how at eighteen. But we didn’t have shit. No money, no support. Then Ned showed back up. Said there were ways to make cash fast.”
I’m engrossed by his words, but hearing this story from his mouth makes my stomach twist.
Not just because of what he lived through—though that alone is enough to wreck me—but because of the calm strength in how he tells it. There’s no dramatics. No self-pity. Just a man who was forced to grow up too fast and never looked back.
“Fighting,” he says, voice low and flat. Almost hollow. “Started in garages that turned into cages. Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Just fists and the will to live to see another fight. Another dollar. If there were any rules, they changed depending on who had money riding on it.”
His gaze is far away now, locked on a point behind me.
“Word spread. Bets got bigger. Rounds got bloodier. I kept winning, and every win meant more cash in Ned’s pocket. He called me his golden investment.”
He stops cold, jaw clenched, throat moving with the effort of choking down whatever’s clawing its way up.
“One fight… the worst one.” His eyes flicker. “They imported a guy for the job. Hands wrapped in steel-threaded tape. Illegal as hell. Didn’t matter. Nobody monitored anything. Or if they did, they got paid to keep their mouths shut.”
His posture falters for a second, the kind of movement that says pain still lives under the surface. Maybe it always will.
“He hit me in the ribs first. I felt something give—heard it, actually. Then he went for my face. Broke my nose. Split my cheek wide open. Nearly lost my left eye. I was choking on my own blood before the first round ended.”
I cover my mouth, stomach turning. He keeps going.
“They dumped me in a warehouse after. Left me on the floor, half-conscious, bleeding out. Cold concrete under me, blood soaking through my shirt, pooling around me like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”
A beat of silence.
“But I lived,” he says simply. “And I made a deal.”
I swallow hard. “A deal?”
I watch his profile as he speaks, the hardness in his jaw, the calm behind his eyes. He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t make sense for someone with blood on his hands. A man who’s dangerous by necessity, not by nature. And yet, here he is—offering me the truth. Peeling back the layers with nothing to gain from it.
“I told Ned I’d fight him again. Same guy. No medics. No rules. Just me and him. Everyone would be betting against me after the beating I took. And if I survived a second time, he’d get hispay out and clear everything. JT and I would walk. No debt, no favors. I keep my fair cut. He never speaks my name again.”
My voice barely comes out. “And he agreed to that?”
Hex nods once. “He didn’t think I’d survive. That’s why he said yes. Even made a few bets against me.”
“But you did.”
He holds my gaze, the weight of truth in his eyes. “Barely. Took everything I had to stay upright. I could feel bones grinding. Thought my lung might’ve collapsed. Will and JT found me after. They helped patch me up the best they could. Took months to heal. But I did it.”
He pauses and glances around the kitchen, eyes landing on the windows that open out to the dark stretch of trees. “Used the winnings to buy this place. Built something that couldn’t be taken from me. Got out of Red Bluff. Got JT and I out from under Ned.”
“And bought the bar.”
He nods again. “Bought it not long after. Took every cent I had left. Poured it all in. Turned it into Ruin's End.” His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. “Made it a safe place for good people who really needed help.”
There’s a vulnerability in that I wasn’t expecting. And something in me aches.
He protected his brother the way I protect Bash. On instinct. Without question. He made sacrifices I can’t even begin to imagine. And while the choices he made afterward, for others in need, might be morally gray—or pitch black—there’s no denying the heart behind them.
I feel it in my chest, low and warm and terrifying. Because it’s been a long time since I let myself feel this much for someone new. And even longer since I’ve looked at a man and thought—
He might understand me. Not just tolerate the disarray or the walls but actuallyseeme.
And still choose to stay.
