Page 1 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

I COULD DIE out here.

It’s the one thought I can hold on to in this blur of cold and pain and blind animal panic. A tether. A knife-tip of reality pressing into my ribs, keeping me from slipping under completely.

I don’t know how long I’ve been running. I don’t remember when my legs started to burn or when the cold started to dig into my skin like sharp little teeth. But I know why .

The memory keeps looping: the back seat of the senator’s limousine, his gnarled hand sliding up my thigh, the wine Billy handed me thickening in my veins and making my mind go woozy.

Then the shock of night air in my lungs as I spilled out of the car and stumbled into the trees—running before my brain could catch up.

The memories slip and blur, but the fear stays.

It thrums in my chest, pulsing against the creeping numbness taking hold of my limbs.

Billy wasn’t always a monster in leather, cutting deals with men who see girls as currency. For years, he was my protector, scaring off any man who so much as looked at me. Once, the burn in his eyes meant I was his to love, not his to trade.

But tonight I saw the truth. My protector drugged me so that a lewd, entitled old man could climb on top of me without any resistance. It’s what keeps my legs moving, even though whatever was in that wine is trying to pull me under.

I have no plan, nowhere to land, but I can’t go back. I won’t . I’d rather die here in this forest than give myself up, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left of me anymore.

My shoes crunch through the crusted snow.

I have no idea if I’m running fast, or if I’m just careening, disoriented and loose, but my lungs burn from the effort.

My bare legs are tingling from exposure.

I can’t feel my fingers anymore. My body is shutting down, but the cold helps fight off the sedation. I can’t stop. I have to go…somewhere.

I don’t realize I’ve fallen until I’m staring at the night sky, a fresh stinging sensation blooming across my forehead. The trees loom overhead, bare branches like skeletal fingers pointing upward. One branch still swinging, right at forehead height.

But it feels so good to lie here. The ground has caught me with gentle hands, the frozen earth is a bed beneath me. My eyelids are so heavy. I don’t even feel the cold anymore…

A sound rips through the stillness. A car.

It cuts through my fog, yanking me back from the edge of oblivion. A car means a road. A road means somewhere. And giving in now means dying here.

Somehow I manage to grit my teeth and haul myself up, gripping a tree trunk for leverage. The world sways, my vision tunnels, but I hold on. One step, and then another, and I resume my uncoordinated stumble toward the sound of the car.

In only a dozen or so steps, the woods fall away and I’m on the precipice of a large cleared space. In the distance, a dark house breaks up the grey, moonlit horizon.

I’ve made it.

Somewhere.

I cross the lawn, staring at the house like it’ll disappear if I let it out of my sight.

I trail my fingers along the clapboard, looking for a way in, and then I’m fumbling for the porch railing, tripping up the stairs.

My hands are useless, barely able to grasp the latch of the screen door, and my knees buckle before I can even pull it open.

My world narrows to one instinct: find shelter.

The last thing I see is a rattan couch tucked against the porch wall, its faded cushions beckoning.

A blue tarp lies crumpled beside it, half slid off a stack of patio chairs.

I manage to grab it before collapsing onto the couch, pulling it over myself like a blanket, and then my consciousness drops, sinking like a stone.

I wake up warm.

I blink, trying to bring my vision into focus. Above me, wooden beams stretch across a vaulted ceiling, honey-colored and smooth.

I try to sit up, but my limbs feel slow, my head stuffed with cotton. I was dreaming. About a Viking—big, blond, and rough-handed. But as I shake off the remnants of sleep, the memories crash back.

Billy saying, “Drink it,” as he handed me a glass of white wine. “It’ll help you relax.”

The smug, smarmy smile on the senator’s face. The darkness of the woods. The cold.

Adrenaline spikes through me, clearing my head fast.

Where the hell am I?

I push up on shaky arms and take in my surroundings.

I’m on a brown leather sofa underneath a wool blanket, a fireplace crackling beside me.

To my left, tall picture windows frame snow-laden pines, sunlight cutting through them in long, golden streaks.

Beyond the sofa is a long dining table and an arched doorway.

Beside the fireplace, a staircase climbs to a lofted second floor, and just beyond it is a tiled foyer.

It’s a cozy space. Sparsely decorated, but warm and inviting.

And I have no fucking idea who it belongs to.

I shove the blanket off—immediately regretting it as a wave of dizziness hits me. I squeeze my eyes shut until it passes, and when I open them again, I spot my Chucks neatly set beside the fireplace. My dress is still on, my feet in only dingy, threadbare socks, but somebody took my shoes off.

Where am I?

I get up cautiously and make my way toward the foyer, eyeing the coats hanging on the wall. If I can grab one and get out before anyone notices—

Then what?

My thoughts are interrupted by the thud of boots outside, and the faint shift of a shadow under the door. My heart slams against my ribs just as the door swings open, and a man steps inside.

I take an automatic step back, my fingers tingling with a rush of panic, and he freezes.

“Whoa.” He lifts his hands like I’m a spooked animal.

I take another step back, scanning the room for another exit, anything I can use as a weapon. The man is tall, dark-haired, and clean-cut. He looks like someone who could code an app or negotiate a software deal over lunch.

His green eyes flick over me, taking in my state—short dress, dirty socks, and probably pretty wild-eyed.

“You’re okay,” he says gently. “My name is Jake. We found you on the porch.”

We.

I glance behind him, looking for others, my pulse thrumming. He steps forward slightly, and I move back again.

“We found you unconscious,” he continues. “You were freezing.”

He doesn’t look like O.D.—no tattoos, hard to picture him straddling a Harley. But I’ve learned not to trust appearances. The Order of Disorder had clean-cut monsters, too.

He spreads his hands wider, showing me his palms. “You’re safe. I promise.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind is spinning, trying to assess whether he’s a threat.

And then a wave of exhaustion washes over me, making my knees buckle.

The man—Jake—lunges forward, catching my arms before I hit the floor.

“Whoa,” he murmurs, steadying me. His hands are firm, strong but careful. “Let’s get you back to the couch.”

I don’t fight him. I can’t.

The soft pillow smells familiar now, like wood smoke and something clean. I sink into it, surrendering to sleep once more.

I wake up to voices, low and murmuring, beyond the dining room.

Male voices.

It’s dark outside and the flames in the fireplace are dying. My stomach clenches. For a second, I forget where I am, but then it all comes rushing back.

“I don’t like it,” someone grumbles.

“You never do.” I recognize Jake’s voice from earlier.

“She could be a plant,” comes a third voice, deep and gruff. “You don’t just find girls like that on your doorstep.”

“She was freezing to death,” Jake counters. “She’s scared.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful,” a fourth voice interjects. It’s calm and measured. The moment he speaks, the others go quiet.

A leader. I can tell by the way he speaks. The way they don’t argue with him. It’s the same kind of authority Billy had over the club.

I try to stand. Other than the throbbing headache spreading across my scalp, I feel normal. The dizziness is gone, and my stomach growls, making me realize I’m starving.

Tiptoeing across the room, I move closer to the voices, listening carefully. If they’re bikers, I decide, I’ll run.

And if they’re not?

I didn’t have a plan when I ran away from the senator. There’s no safe place waiting for me, no one I can call. I’m alone in the world with nothing but the day-old tube dress I’m wearing and my worn-out socks. I can’t go outside in February dressed like this.

Again.

I’m vulnerable, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been vulnerable for as long as I can remember and I’ve managed to survive. I may not have much, but I have faith in my ability to take care of myself.

“Listen,” Jake is saying, “I don’t know how she ended up here, but something happened to her and she needs help.”

“I’m not saying we kick her out,” comes a gruff response. “I’m just saying let’s not forget security protocol. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“What the jarhead is saying is that we should assume she’s an enemy plant until proven otherwise. A beautiful, half-dressed girl appearing on our doorstep in the middle of nowhere? When it’s that unlikely, you keep your fucking wits about you.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re both so fucking paranoid,” Jake mutters. “She’s a girl.”

Footsteps approach, and Jake rounds the doorway, catching me hovering just outside it.

“Hey,” he says, green eyes widening. “You’re up.”

I nod, my cheeks warming. No point pretending I wasn’t eavesdropping.

He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. I follow him in, my pulse tapping at my throat as I cross the threshold.

The kitchen is pure cottage-core: oak cabinets, a stained-glass pendant light over a round wooden table, and a vintage, olive-green stove that practically begs someone’s grandma to make cookies.

The three men sitting there, though, look anything but grandmother-approved.

The oldest one, with gray-streaked hair and a broad chest, rests his forearms on the table, thick fingers loosely clasped.

He looks older than the others, maybe mid-forties, but even the shapeless navy coveralls he wears can’t hide the strength in his frame.

Across from him, a younger guy slouches in his chair, dark hair falling into his eyes.

He’s got a full mouth and a sharp jaw, and something about his expression reminds me of Billy—that same look, something between boredom and amusement.

He wears the same coveralls as the older guy.

The man between them is different. He sits with his arms crossed, army-green t-shirt stretched over a broad chest. Tattoos snake over the backs of his hands, up his forearms, even his neck.

Long, dark-blond hair is pulled back from a chiseled face, a trim beard tracking the strong line of his jaw.

Thick, straight brows draw together over dark, unreadable eyes.

I know immediately he’s the leader. He doesn’t just sit at the table—he commands it.

Not that the others seem weak. They’re some of the strongest men I’ve ever seen together in one room, and I’ve been in a motorcycle club since I was sixteen.

Even Jake, who pulls out a chair for me, has definition under that t-shirt that’s hard to miss.

I know what I must look like to them—petite, young face… A lost little girl. But I meet their eyes as I sit, trying to project a calm I don’t quite feel.

The older man speaks first. “Feeling better?”

His blue eyes rake over me, sharp and assessing.

“A lot,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”

A silence stretches. They’re waiting for me to explain myself, but I don’t. Not yet. Let them ask the questions. Behind me, Jake’s presence is fortifying, like he’s on my side.

“We don’t get a lot of young women showing up on our doorstep,” the older man continues. “Seems like you landed yourself in some kind of trouble.”

“Running from it,” I correct. “Hope I didn’t land in it.”

The one with the black hair snorts, his mouth twitching in amusement.

“You won’t find trouble here,” says the older man, though his eyes suggest he’s reserving judgment. Across the table, the blond one just watches me, his expression unreadable.

“You got a name?”

“Maxwell,” I say. “Max.”

“Max,” he repeats. “Okay. I’m Wyatt.” He nods toward the black-haired man. “That’s Damian. And Jake behind you.” His gaze flicks to the blond man. “And this is Ryder.”

He introduces Ryder last. A subtle show of deference.

I give them each a small, polite smile in turn.

“Get you a beer?” asks Jake.

“Just water, thanks.” My throat is dry. I need food, too, but I’ll figure that out later.

Jake fills a glass at the sink. “Ryder found you on the porch,” he says as he sets it in front of me.

I lift my eyes to Ryder. His dark stare is unflinching, and something about it makes heat rise to my cheeks before I drop my gaze. I wish he didn’t intimidate me, but he does.

There’s nothing soft in his expression. Damian watches me with curiosity, Wyatt with wary kindness. But Ryder looks at me like he already knows something about me, and he doesn’t like it.

I take a sip of water. “I think—” I clear my throat. “I think someone gave me a sedative.” The words feel awkward in my mouth. My boyfriend drugged me. How do you tell someone that? “Anyway, I…I’m sorry to intrude. And thank you.” I dart another look at Ryder. “For bringing me inside.”

Damian’s dark eyebrows knit into a frown, but nobody speaks. The silence stretches, until Ryder finally breaks it.

“You got somewhere to go?”

His dark eyes bore into me relentlessly. But there’s something there now—a flicker of softness.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll figure something out,” I stammer. “It’s fine.”

Fuck.

Ryder narrows his eyes. I catch Wyatt and Damian exchanging glances.

“Is there someone you can call?” Jake crouches down so we’re eye-level, and to my horror, tears sting my eyes. I blink them back and look at the table. Be cool, Max.

I shake my head. There’s no one.

I don’t want to go back. I don’t want Billy to have that power over me. But how do I survive with absolutely nothing?

“I don’t want to go back,” I say softly. It surprises even me. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Jake nods, pressing his lips together. He shoots a look at Ryder.

“Why don’t you sleep on it?” Jake suggests. “We’ll figure out what’s next in the morning.”

I glance at Ryder, unconsciously checking for his approval. I hate that I do it, but there’s nowhere else for me to go.

Ryder sees the question in my eyes. After a pause, he nods.

“Thank you,” I whisper.