“Stauder’s guys. Jim and Tanner. Said they were looking for you, but JT was the next best thing. They said Ned’s done playing. Said you’re no longer in the clear. That you owe him.”
My jaw locks as rage climbs my spine. “The fuck I do.”
Will exhales hard, voice thinning and bracing for impact. “He said if you didn’t sit down and talk… he’d go after something else. The bar is my guess.”
I glance toward the bed.
Sable’s sitting up now, the sheet pulled to her chest, wide, alert eyes locked on mine. She’s already piecing it together.
My chest burns with the kind of fury I haven’t let loose in years.
He touched my family.
And now he’s threatening my home or worse, something I hope he won’t find out about, but I know how easily it will be to sniff out Sable.
He has no fucking idea what he’s just done.
I let Will know I’m on my way. Stillwater’s forty minutes out. I’ll drive it faster.
“Does he need to go to the hospital?” I ask as I shove my feet into my boots.
“I don’t think so,” Will says, voice tight. “Some deep cuts. One of them had a knife. But JT held his own. Took a beating, though.”
I clench my jaw. “No cops?”
“No time. It happened fast. But once people inside realized what was going on, the bar patrons jumped in. Ran ’em off. Placecleared out after that. I’ve got him in the back office now. I’m keeping pressure on the worst of it.”
“I’m on the road in five,” I growl and hang up.
Behind me, I hear rustling.
I turn to see Sable out of bed, already pulling on jeans and a hoodie. “What are you doing?”
She looks at me like it’s obvious. “Coming with you. Those phones aren’t exactly soundproof, Hex.”
Her movements are determined as she quickly stuffs her items back into the bag she brought.
“We’ll go back,” she adds, grabbing her shoes. “Make sure your brother’s okay. I can help.”
Something lodges in my chest—part shock, part something I’m too wrecked to name right now. But it roots itself deep.
We move fast, grabbing everything we brought and locking the house down. She tosses her bag into the truck, barefoot for all of two seconds before slipping into sneakers. I throw it in reverse, and we’re gone.
The Hill Country stretches out in shadow and silence. The cab is dark, quiet except for the low rumble of the engine and the occasional groan of gravel under the tires. My knuckles flex on the wheel. We’re tearing through narrow roads flanked by thick trees and fence posts older than the highway system, and all I can think about is JT. Bloodied. Alone. How long he suffered before someone helped him.
I recognize the moment it happens. When something turns in me.
Not rage. Not panic.
Something colder.
Darker.
A kind of clarity that only shows up when you’ve bled for people and buried parts of yourself to keep it from breathing.When vengeance stops being an idea and starts feeling like religion. Like ritual.
It comes in the overwhelming need to tear those involved apart one nerve at a time. To take the softest part of their fear and stretch it until it screams. By the end, they’ll regret every breath they wasted walking on this earth.
If Ned were to touch JT—if he laid a finger on him himself—
