Page 15 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE SMELL OF coffee threads through the hazy space between sleep and waking, tugging me toward consciousness. I figure it means Wyatt’s home—and then panic sends my heart racing.

I sit upright, my pulse hammering. Shit .

If Wyatt walks in and sees the mess we left—empty whiskey bottle, clothes on the floor, maybe worse…

I don’t even want to think about it. I scrub a hand over my face, pushing past the rush of anxiety.

My head and body ache—one from the whiskey, the other…

from Jake. Followed by Damian. The memory sends heat licking up my spine.

I slide off the bed, throw on a t-shirt and an old pair of Wyatt’s shorts, and prepare to face the music before padding toward the kitchen.

But it’s not Wyatt. Relief eases the tight coil in my chest. Instead, it’s Jake in yesterday’s clothes, leaning against the counter, sipping coffee from a chipped black mug. His lips curve, eyes dragging over me in a way that makes heat bloom under my skin.

No regrets. Not even a little.

“Morning, beautiful. You were out cold.” His voice is rough with sleep. Sexy and gruff, just like him.

“Coffee,” I groan. “I want coffee.”

“Me too,” comes a low voice from the couch. I look over to see Damian sprawled across it, one arm flung over his eyes, shirtless but in his jeans from last night. His body is gorgeous in the light of day, carved with muscle and marked with tattoos across his chest and shoulders.

Right. They both stayed here last night.

Because last night really did happen. Even in the clear light of day, there’s no denying it.

Jake pours two more coffees. He hands me one with a kiss on the forehead, then crosses to the couch, nudging Damian’s leg with his knee.

Damian reluctantly moves his arm and sits up just enough to accept the steaming mug.

When he leans forward, I spot the tattoo on his right shoulder clearly—four snakes around a dagger, just like Jake’s and Ryder’s.

“Oh.” I squint at it. “You have that tattoo too.”

“We all do,” Jake answers, returning to the kitchen and sinking into a rickety chair. “It’s from our unit. The four of us made up a strike team. Small, specialized. Cross-branch.”

“Cross-branch?”

“Army, Navy, Marines...and me.” He grins. “We called ourselves Hellbent.”

“Why Hellbent?”

“Because once we were pointed at a target, we didn’t stop. No matter what. Kinda like you, killer.”

“All grit, no quit,” mutters Damian from the couch, groggy with sleep.

“All grit, no quit,” Jake echoes with a laugh. “That’s right. Now go back to sleep, grandma, and get some rest.”

Damian sets his coffee down on the table and flips him off without looking, rolling onto his side.

A few hours later, Wyatt’s bike pulls into the parking lot and he walks into the garage like he hasn’t just been MIA for more than twenty-four hours.

I glance up from where I’m hunched over the workbench, updating a work order, and find I’m surprised by the flicker of relief that moves through me. I missed him.

He looks rough. Still that quiet, immovable presence, but there’s an edge to him. He has circles under his eyes, the stubble on his jaw is a little thicker. He’s exhausted.

He doesn’t say where he’s been, and I don’t ask. He just nods at me before flipping through the day’s work orders. Then he moves toward the Dodge Ram I’ve been working on, running a hand over the open hood.

“You torque down the valve covers yet?”

I shake my head.

“Good. I’ll handle it.”

I glance at Damian, but he doesn’t look up, attention focused on his work. Another secret swallowed into the air between these men.

In the afternoon, Ryder shows up.

That alone is unusual. He rarely comes to the garage. Today, he walks right in like he owns the place—not that anyone would question it—his sharp brown eyes flicking over Damian and I before locking onto Wyatt.

“Good work,” Ryder says, clapping him once on the back. The two of them step into the little glass office and close the door behind them.

The hours slip by.

Damian and I fall into rhythm, the steady motions of work distracting me from my hangover.

Eventually, Wyatt and Ryder emerge. Wyatt heads straight for the Ram, waving me off again. Ryder perches on the workbench, flipping open a laptop, giant tattooed hands clacking against the keys in the relative silence.

The atmosphere is certainly different than it was yesterday. More serious and less playful. The adults have come home.

“Bring over the all-terrains,” Wyatt calls to me.

I nod, heading to the far wall where Damian has hung the tires on long, flat hooks. Reaching up to the full extent of my height, I push one up and over the hook, but the weight shifts too fast and unbalances me while the tire is over my head.

“Hey!” Ryder’s voice cuts through the garage, sharp and unexpected.

He’s already moving toward me, but I catch myself, jogging the tire in the air before swinging it forward, bringing it down with a solid thud.

“Jesus,” he hisses, eyes locked on me. “You okay?”

My pulse hammers, his attention unsettling me. I nod quickly, rolling the tire toward Wyatt. “Fine.”

He doesn’t go back to his laptop right away. He watches me roll the tire, and when I come back for the next one, he moves before I can protest, easily reaching up and bringing it down with one hand.

“I could’ve done it,” I say, more defensively than I intend to.

“No doubt,” he says, voice even. Something—approval?—flickers in his eyes. “You’re tougher than you look.”

The words hit somewhere deep, unexpected but warm.

“She’s got grit,” says Wyatt, flashing me a proud smile.

Ryder doesn’t respond. He just watches me for another beat, assessing, before finally turning back to his laptop.

That night, we have dinner at the house.

It’s a celebration—of what, I don’t know. The long wooden table in Ryder’s dining room is set with mismatched plates, loaded high with grilled steak and roasted potatoes.

Ryder gives a toast, standing and raising his glass. “To the men who get the job done. Who show up, see it through, and don’t back down. To Jake, Damian, and Wyatt.” He nods at each of them in turn. “I don’t take it for granted. None of us do.”

Wyatt inclines his head. Damian smiles faintly, but there’s no teasing in his eyes. Jake clinks his glass against Damian’s water before drinking, looking pleased but saying nothing.

I’m the only one at the table who doesn’t understand what, exactly, we’re celebrating. The secret work that took Jake and Damian away must be the same that pulled Wyatt from the garage.

I wonder if Wyatt’s a hacker, too.

I sit between Jake and Damian, their presence sparking electricity beneath my skin.

The warmth of them keeps me hyperaware, my pulse humming beneath the surface.

I clock the way the hair falls over Damian’s eyes, the way Jake’s hand rests on his thigh—broad, strong, long-fingered.

When he notices me looking, he shifts, fingers slipping over mine beneath the table, curling around them.

Soon, Damian’s arm is draped casually along the back of my chair, then his fingers are skimming my shoulder.

A touch so light it could be mistaken for nothing.

Jake leans in under the guise of reaching for the wine, his breath warm against my cheek, and whispers, “You two look cozy,” with a conspiratorial smile.

Damian doesn’t even pretend to be subtle. The corner of his mouth lifts as he spears a wedge of potato. “She likes to be in the middle.”

My cheeks heat and Jake chuckles, nudging his knee against mine. The space between us feels tight and intimate, something meant just for the three of us, like the rest of the table has faded into the background.

But it hasn’t, of course.

I glance up at Wyatt and Ryder, engaged in a serious conversation of their own, and see them flick their eyes our way, like they’re only too aware of the charged energy between me and Jake and Damian.

Wyatt’s protectiveness has always been there, but Ryder’s dark eyes burn when I catch his look.

He turns back to Wyatt, speaking as if nothing has distracted him, but there’s tension in his jaw.

As the meal winds down, I push my chair back and start gathering plates.

The conversation continues behind me as I slip into the kitchen, setting the stack beside the sink and turning on the tap.

Warm water rushes over my fingers—peaceful, although the distant clink of silverware and laughter from the dining room keep the house from feeling too quiet.

I don’t hear Wyatt step in behind me until I feel him. A hand at my lower back, hovering lightly.

The touch sends a jolt through me.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“It’s just dishes.”

He doesn’t move his hand. It lingers—too long.

When I turn my head to look at him, his blue eyes are shadowed with fatigue. And then, just as smoothly as he placed it there, his hand is gone. He clears his throat, steps back. The warmth of his touch stays with me long after he’s left the room.

The wine keeps flowing long after dinner, although yesterday’s whiskey churns in my stomach. I stick to water along with Damian.

Someone puts on an old blues record and Jake and Damian and I sprawl out in the living room, leaving the grown-ups to talk.

Damian leans back into the couch, one arm slung across the cushions behind me. Jake, on my other side, smiles wickedly as he tips his glass against his lips, watching me over the rim.

I rest my fingers on Jake’s thigh while Damian’s voice is in my ear, alternately teasing and flirtatious. We sit in our little cocoon charged with electricity and fire, and I try not to wonder what becomes of all this in the long-term, and just enjoy it now.

But eventually, I need the bathroom. I pull away, sliding off the couch, and they readjust, moving to opposite ends of the couch and debating whether they should change the music, their voices fading as I walk away.