Page 11 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)
“Mmm, morning, babe.” His voice is thick with sleep, his fingers dragging slow, teasing patterns over my thigh. “God, it feels good to wake up next to you.”
He presses his body against me, the hard length of his morning wood heating my back.
I snort and turn over. “Does it?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to get my ass kicked.”
Jake laughs. “By Captain Wyatt Marshall? Um…yep, you probably are. And me too. I better get out of here before he comes down with a shotgun.”
I shove him, and he chuckles, sitting up. He looks so fucking good like this—naked, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep. Instantly I crave him all over again, and I want to ask if he’ll come back tonight; when I’ll see him again.
He exhales, running a hand through his messy hair. “I should go.”
I nod, but neither of us move.
It’s easy here, in the dim light of my small space, where the world is still asleep and nothing feels complicated yet.
But then the floor creaks upstairs, and we freeze.
Jake exhales sharply, presses a quick kiss to my lips, then he’s up, pulling on his jeans, tossing me a wink as he slips out the door like a thief in the night.
I flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Shit.
The scent of coffee hits me before I even step into the kitchen. Wyatt is at the counter, pouring a mug, his broad shoulders tense under his shirt. My stomach tightens, but I force myself to walk in like nothing’s different.
“Morning,” I say, reaching for the pot.
His eyes flick to mine. Something unreadable lingers there for half a second before he nods. His jaw tightens just slightly as he looks away. “Morning.”
That’s it. No comment, no accusation. But the air between us feels heavier than usual.
I pour my coffee, hyper-aware of every move. He doesn’t look at me again, but I can feel the weight of the silence between us. I don’t know if I want him to say something or if I’m relieved he doesn’t.
When Damian strolls into the shop about an hour later, he’s grinning like the devil himself. He takes one look at me, then at Wyatt, then back at me.
“Damn, Finch,” he drawls, leaning against the counter. “You’re glowing.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
His smirk is pure sin. “Just saying. You look…well-rested.”
Jake is going to die.
Heat crawls up my neck, and Damian watches, enjoying every second of my suffering. Wyatt, on the other hand, doesn’t react at all. He just picks up his phone and heads for the door.
“I’ll be in the garage,” is all he says before disappearing.
The moment he’s gone, Damian chuckles. “Aw, don’t be shy, Finch. I think it’s cute. Jake sneaking in like a horny teenager. Classic.”
I groan, covering my face. “Do you have to be such an asshole?”
“Always.” He winks and leans back against the counter, dragging his gaze over me in a way that makes heat prickle down my spine.
It makes me flash back to the night before last—to the moment my gaze locked with his and he watched me come apart under Jake’s mouth—and my cheeks flush.
His lips curl like my thoughts are showing on my face.
“Whatever’s going through your head right now,” he says in a low, amused tone, “I hope it’s about me.”
I straighten, pretending I’m not flustered. “Not everything’s about you, Damian.”
“No?” His brows lift in mock disappointment. He presses a hand to his chest. “Damn. And here I thought we had a moment.”
I swallow, shifting my weight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His grin turns wicked. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.”
I grip the glass countertop, fighting to stay still, but he sees right through me. He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, voice dropping lower.
“So shy now,” he muses, his sly smile deepening. “You sure as hell weren’t the other night.”
My breath catches.
His grin widens, knowing. “Didn’t peg you for the type to like an audience, that’s all.”
Then he turns, swings open the door to the garage, and strolls out like he didn’t just set my whole body on fire.
I exhale sharply, pressing my palms against the counter, trying to gather myself.
I’m not unsure what shakes me more—Wyatt’s silence, or Damian’s heat.
I don’t see much of Wyatt all day.
He’s quiet and focused, mostly working in the office and leaving Damian and I alone on the floor. I think about saying something, but nothing feels right. An apology doesn’t exactly feel necessary, but his silence is putting me on edge.
In the afternoon, Jake calls and says he’s tied up with work—something involving encrypted files and federal servers that he sounds way too excited about.
When the garage closes, Damian grabs his coat and says he’s going into town to meet someone.
I watch him leave, wondering if there’s someone out there who gets more than flirty banter and stolen looks from him, and the thought gives me an unexpected pang of jealousy. I shove it aside.
That leaves me and Wyatt.
“Pizza?” he asks, holding the door open to his second-floor apartment.
I nod and follow him up the stairs, grateful for the thawing of this morning’s disapproval.
Wyatt’s apartment is tidy in the way everything about him is tidy—spare, quiet, no frills.
His living room has the basics: a TV in the corner, a worn leather couch that sags slightly in the middle, a low shelf under the window stacked with war memoirs and a few cracked-spine paperbacks.
The kitchen is practical. Cast iron pans hung neatly over the stove, a coffee pot already cleaned and drying on the rack.
He unboxes a frozen pizza and turns on the oven while I put plates and napkins on the coffee table, where we’ll eat in front of the TV.
It’s only the fourth time we’ve eaten dinner together up here, but somehow we’ve already fallen into a routine. We finish our pizza in front of the evening news and then Wyatt pours two fingers of whiskey and makes me a cup of mint tea.
On TV, a lone anchorwoman stares out at us with a serious expression, but my attention’s only half there, drifting to heated reminiscences of my night with Jake, until I overhear something that snaps my full attention into focus.
“New developments tonight in a violent attack outside Redwater,” she says, “where video footage has linked the brutal beating of a former National Guard sergeant to a motorcycle club known as The Order of Disorder—an outlaw gang with a history of violent crimes spanning three states.”
My heart seizes.
Onscreen, grainy surveillance footage shows a parking lot, where three men take an unarmed man down, fists flying, the patch on their leather vests a logo I know all too well: the screaming skull, bright white against the black of their cuts.
I can’t recognize any of the men in the low-resolution footage, but that patch alone is enough to knock the air from my lungs, the sight of it a visceral reminder that the club still exists without me. That they’re still out there. That Billy is.
I go still, suddenly self-conscious, like if I so much as move Wyatt will see something in me that gives it away—that I know these people. That I’m connected to this violence.
"Disgraceful," he spits out.
The anchor moves on. Weather next. Storm warnings. I risk a glance at him, noting the tension in his jaw.
“Yeah, terrible,” I venture. “That poor man.”
“I just hate seeing shit like that. Vets getting jumped by mouth-breathing thugs in matching vests.”
I make a sound that’s supposed to be agreement, but it gets stuck in my throat.
He puts his empty glass on the coffee table and leans back, crossing his arms. “I used to run security details down south. Saw enough of those clubs to last me a lifetime. Guys with shaved heads and skull patches who think riding in packs makes them invincible.”
I glance at him. “The Order of Disorder?”
“Among others.” He exhales through his nose. “They’re all the same. Doesn’t matter what name’s stitched on the patch. Drugs and guns and human lives. For what? Because it makes them feel powerful? Pathetic.”
Something cold slides down my spine.
After a beat, I ask, soft, “You ever know anyone who…got caught up in that kind of life?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “Didn’t end well.” Then he adds: “Ryder lost someone close because of that shit. A long time ago. I don’t think he’s ever come back from it.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Oh,” I mutter.
“He doesn’t talk about it. But he sure the fuck thinks about it. This kind of news story burns him alive.”
I nod slowly, even though my chest’s gone tight.
Because I’ve let them believe I come from a world like theirs. One that they’d understand. Not the one we just saw on TV. And now I’m not sure I could ever tell them the truth—even if I wanted to.