Page 12 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

WYATT IS DETERMINED.

It’s just how he’s built—steady, focused, unshakably disciplined.

The kind of man who’s up before sunrise, running in the cold, then finishing with pull-ups behind the shop, body moving with slow, brutal control.

The kind of man who, in his late forties, could outlast men half his age, thanks to decades of sweat and sheer stubbornness.

Once he commits to something, he doesn’t let up.

Which I’m learning firsthand, now that he’s decided to teach me how to fix cars.

My days in the shop had been stretching long—hours slumped over the counter, working my way through dry, political books borrowed from Wyatt’s bookshelf, serving the slow trickle of customers—until one afternoon he’d leaned in from the garage, wiping grease from his knuckles, and said, “I think it’s time you learned to do something useful. ”

Since then, he’s thrown himself into teaching me with the same relentless focus he brings to everything else.

“Ease up. You’re gonna round it off,” Wyatt says now, arms crossed as the wrench slips for the third time.

“I’m getting it,” I mutter, frustration snapping in my tone.

“Doesn’t look like it. You’re trying to muscle it.”

My grip tightens. “I’m trying to loosen it.”

“Use leverage. Let the tool do the work.”

I grit my teeth and exhale sharply, repositioning my grip exactly as he showed me. My palms ache. But when the bolt finally loosens, I feel a rush of satisfaction surge through me.

Wyatt nods once, a faint flicker of approval crossing his face. “Now do it faster next time.”

That’s all I get from him before he moves on, leaving me kneeling beside a dirty sedan, knees on the cold floor. Damian, sitting on a creeper beside the car next to me, watches the whole thing with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Man’s got the emotional range of drywall,” he quips. “Bet that was the closest thing to a compliment he’s given in a month.”

I stifle a laugh. Damian and I have settled into a rhythm—a constant back-and-forth, full of teasing and baiting, little jabs that neither of us ever take too far.

Somewhere along the way, it’s become familiar.

I’ve learned how to throw his taunts right back at him, how to parry his sharp, flirtatious remarks with my own.

“But look at you,” he continues, hazel gaze flicking over me appreciatively. “Getting your hands dirty. That’s a good look on you, Finch.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small twitch at the corner of my mouth.

“Yeah? I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Not all of them.” He flashes a sly grin, his black hair falling into his eyes. “What can I say? I just like a woman with grease under her nails.”

He stands, rolling his shoulders in a slow, self-assured motion that makes it impossible not to notice, and walks toward the workbench.

“Don’t let Wyatt work you too hard,” he tosses over his shoulder, snatching up a clipboard and tapping it against his palm. Then he turns, pointing it at me. “Unless, of course, you like it rough.”

I slowly lift up my middle finger, keeping my expression neutral, but my pulse betrays me, kicking up as he disappears into the office.

At night, it's Jake.

Since that first time, he’s come to my room every night.

The second time, I was less surprised when my bedroom door opened.

The third time, I was waiting.

By the fourth, I’d started unlocking the side door after Wyatt went to bed.

He comes late, when the world is quiet, and slips beneath the covers, his body fitting against mine.

His hands are warm against my bare skin, exploring and coaxing until I’m begging.

When he takes me, it’s slow and deep—like he wants to make sure I feel every inch of him, like he’s carving himself into me.

We move together in breathless silence, mouths pressed to shoulders, hands over lips, trying not to be heard—but when restraint shatters, it’s never quiet.

I fall asleep with his breath against my neck, his heartbeat steady against my spine. He smells like the cold air he brings in with him, and like something familiar, something that’s already started to feel like mine.

On Thursday, Jake is gone when I wake up.

The sheets next to me are still warm. I stretch and rub my eyes.

The light under the door tells me the sun is up, but the garage is quiet—too quiet.

Usually, Wyatt is already moving around before dawn, making coffee or tinkering with something. But today, there’s nothing.

I push the blankets off and get dressed, grabbing Jake’s hoodie before heading into the shop, but the garage is empty.

A frown tugs at my lips. Wyatt never sleeps in.

The door to the shop swings open, and Damian steps inside, shaking fresh snow off his hair. His hazel eyes land on me, and he grins wolfishly.

“Mornin’, Finch.”

I cross my arms. “Wyatt’s not here.”

“Yeah.” He moves past me, grabbing a set of keys off the board against the back wall. His voice is casual, but I can hear the deflection in it. “He’ll be gone for a couple days.”

“Gone? Doing what?”

He shoots me a look that’s all playful arrogance. “Work.”

I shake my head. “Of course. Mysterious men and their mysterious jobs.”

Damian grins. “That bother you?”

But he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He tosses me a set of car keys, and I catch them without thinking.

“Good reflexes,” he says appreciatively.

We work through the morning side by side.

Without Wyatt around, the energy is different—less structured, more unpredictable.

Damian plays music louder than he ever allows, the speakers rattling with heavy guitar and crashing drums, and both of us leave our tools scattered around the floor—a liability that would drive him nuts.

I focus on the car in front of me, tightening a bolt on the engine block, listening to the rhythmic clank of Damian’s tools a few feet away.

It should be easy to ignore him…but it’s not.

I glance over, tugging up the sleeves of my coveralls from where they've slid down over my wrists again.

Damian is leaning over the hood of a Charger, forearms flexing as he adjusts something under the frame.

A lock of hair falls into his eyes, and he exhales sharply, flicking his head to the side, but it falls right back into place.

“You checking me out, Finch?” he asks without looking up. His voice is amused. Smug.

I scoff, tossing a rag at him. “You wish.”

He catches it, wiping grease off his fingers, then steps in closer—just enough to make me aware of the space between us. “I do, actually.”

“Cocky much?” It comes out smooth, even though my pulse is tripping over itself.

“Better than playing shy, sweetheart.” His voice dips low, and the curve of his mouth turns knowing, like he can see right through my act.

I meet his gaze and lift an eyebrow, daring him to keep going.

After a beat, he grins and steps back, walking away.

Later that afternoon, Damian pulls the cover off a sleek black sports car—a '69 Mustang Fastback, tucked in the back. I recognize it instantly. Wyatt’s prized project, definitely off-limits, weeks away from being ready. But Damian dangles the keys, his smile edged with challenge.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

“Wyatt would kill us.”

He grins. “Wyatt’s not here.”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to, but because I never would have before.

For so long, my world has been dictated by rules—men’s rules, men’s power, men deciding what I can and can’t do.

The part of me that still flinches at stepping out of line whispers don’t .

But there’s another part—a new, louder part —that says why the hell not?

Damian sees the war in my head and waits, eyes glittering, like he already knows how this will end. And I guess I do, too.

I snatch the keys from his fingers. “I’m driving,” I say, running to the driver’s side door.

Damian laughs. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

We take the back roads, the low purr of the engine filling the silence. Snow drifts, coating the old piles at the side of the road with a fresh white covering. The roads are mostly clear, but the curves are still slick in places.

I push the car faster.

Faster.

It’s reckless. Stupid, even. The roads are still dangerous this time of year. Unpredictable. But that’s exactly why I do it.

Pushing my control is exhilarating.

Damian, lounging in the passenger seat, watches me like he knows this is what I need. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to stop me, he just lets me drive.

I press the gas harder, the engine roaring as the speedometer climbs, and the car responds instantly, powerful and strong.

The curve comes fast. A flash of white. A shimmer across the pavement.

Ice.

The tires lose grip. The car skids, spinning out on the empty stretch of asphalt. My stomach lurches as we slide sideways, the world tilting—

I slam the brakes, the Mustang juddering as the locked tires slide without gaining purchase, and then, just as suddenly, it’s over. The car jerks to a stop. My heart pounds. My breath comes in sharp bursts.

For a second, there’s silence. Then Damian lets out a wild whoop. I turn to him, still gripping the wheel tight, and before I know it, I’m laughing. It’s not funny, not really, but the adrenaline, the sheer insanity of it, is shot through with relief.

Damian shifts closer, eyes wild. “You good?”

I nod, still breathless, pulse thundering. My knuckles ache from how hard I’m gripping the wheel, and I force myself to let go, lifting my eyes to Damian’s. I catch him looking right back at me, the heat in his hazel eyes making my stomach flip.

Suddenly, the way my pulse is racing has nothing to do with the near miss anymore.

He reaches out and covers one of my hands with his, thumb brushing over my fingers. He’s close. So damn close.

I lean toward him without thinking, drawn by instinct, and his laughter fades as our eyes lock, electricity pulsing between us. His gaze drops to my lips.

And then I kiss him.

It’s fast, impulsive, fueled by adrenaline. But the second our lips touch, it’s like striking a match—hot and consuming. My fingers tighten in his shirt, his hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me in deeper…

Then I realize what I’m doing and wrench back, blowing out a breath. “Shit.”

Damian leans back in his seat, completely unbothered. Cool as ice. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Finch.”

I glare at him, heart still hammering, the taste of him still on my lips. I shake my head, exhaling sharply. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Sure,” he drawls, clearly not convinced. There’s a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he leans his head against the headrest. “You ready to head back, or you wanna risk death again?”

I snort, grateful for the change of topic. “Shut up.”

He chuckles but says nothing else as I pull onto the road.

The drive back is quieter, but the tension doesn’t fade. It just settles, thick and charged, between us.

After a while, Damian turns to me. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

I shake my head. “What, nearly dying? Yeah, total thrill.”

“Not that part. The speed. The recklessness. Seems like it felt good for you to let go for once.”

I just smile, but he’s right. It did feel good.

Damian shifts, drumming his fingers once before speaking again. “You ever get to do shit like that before? Just…go?”

My fingers tighten on the wheel. This is the part where I should deflect. Laugh it off. Tell him to mind his own damn business. But I don’t. Maybe it’s the rush of the speed still coursing through me, or the heat from that kiss still simmering beneath my skin. I give him something real.

“Not with my ex,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Billy had to be in charge, you know? Everything had to be a certain way. His way.”

Damian doesn’t say anything, he just waits for me to continue.

I keep my eyes on the road, swallowing the lump in my throat that came out of nowhere.

“It wasn’t always like that—not at first. But then he built something.

A business. People started treating him like he was untouchable, and it went to his head.

Money, power, respect—he had it all. And there were other women, too.

But I…I was always the one who had to bend, who had to be who he wanted me to be.

Because I needed him. Depended on him for my survival. ”

I don’t tell him about the men around Billy. The ones who keep his empire standing, the ones who make sure his will is law. I don’t want to risk saying anything about the club.

Like the others, I’ve let Damian believe I come from a world he’d recognize—shitty ex-boyfriend, bad choices, end of story.

Maybe that’s cowardly, but I don’t want this conversation veering toward anything I’d have to explain.

Not after I seeing how much Wyatt hates that world, and learning that Ryder does, too.

So I leave it at Billy. One man. The one who put an invisible leash around my neck and tightened it every time I tried to pull away.

I tell him how we met. How, at first, he protected me. And how later, he started shrinking me down, piece by piece, until I was just small enough to be manageable.

When I’m done talking, Damian exhales slowly.

“Sounds like a real piece of shit.”

There’s a quiet promise in his tone, something dark and absolute.

I let out a dry chuckle, hollow and flat. “Yeah.”

For a moment, we fall silent. The weight of it lingers, heavy and unspoken.

Then he stretches, and his voice dips back into something teasing. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Finch, but you drive like a fucking menace.”

A snort escapes me before I can stop it. “Says the guy who handed me the keys.”

“Hey,” he says, voice warm with amusement, “I never said I was a good influence.”

I roll my eyes but smile as we cut back through the snowy streets at a steady but reasonable pace.