Page 1 of Finding His Redemption

chapter

one

Jaxon Thorne didn’t believein second chances.

Which made waking up at a halfway house for ex-cons in the middle of Montana… complicated.

The bed creaked as he sat up, muscles stiff from sixteen hours in the truck and five years of sleeping on a cot as thin as toilet paper. He scrubbed a hand down his face, grimacing at the rough stubble and prison stink still clinging to his skin.

What am I doing here?

The thought hit again, same as it had when they rolled in from California in the middle of the night and Walker Nash tossed him a key and pointed to his bunk.

No orientation.

No welcome packet.

Just a warning in Walker’s gruff voice: “You only get one shot at redemption, son. Don’t waste it.”

But Jax didn’t believe in redemption either. That was a church word, and he hadn’t seen the inside of a church since the day they buried what was left of Mac, the last of his SEAL team to go into the ground.

There had been six of them once. Six young men with dreams as big as their testosterone levels, a band of brothers who’dfaced hell together and made it home again. All except that last time, when faulty intel and a string of bad decisions turned homecoming into a roll call of caskets.

Now, there were only three left.

Shane Trevisano, who had been burned beyond recognition.

Rylan Cross, who had lost an arm.

And him.

The one who walked away unscathed.

Physically, at least.

The bed was too soft. The air was too quiet, with only the low hum of a refrigerator and the occasional groan of settling wood. No guards doing hourly rounds, no coughs or snores from the next bunk, no distant sound of metal clanging against metal as cell doors slammed shut.

Just… stillness.

He hated it.

He was free, but freedom felt like a trap when you didn’t know what the hell to do with it.

He spent most of the night staring at the log beams across the ceiling before finally falling into a restless sleep. But he didn’t stay asleep long. He woke sometime before dawn to the murmur of voices and low laughter outside his door. A drawer opened. Utensils clattered. A kettle hissed. A dog barked from somewhere close.

There was a window beside the bed, and outside it, the Montana sky was pale and bruised with the first hint of morning.

The voices outside got louder.

“I said, stay, King!”

Wet paws skittered across hardwood. A deep, braying bark echoed through the hall, followed by the man’s gruff voice, this time laced with exasperation: “He went in the damn pond again. Before six fucking a.m. I swear, I’m trading this furry asshole in for horse duty.”

“Horses can be assholes, too,” someone else said.“And they’re bigger.”

Something thudded. A splash of water. More of those deep barks.

“Shit, Jonah—grab him!”