Page 17 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE SKY IS still dark when I step outside, the last traces of night holding on tight. The air is sharp but warming, the first real sign that the season is changing. It smells like damp earth, the quiet promise of spring carried on the breeze.

I didn’t sleep. Not really. Restlessness sat heavy on my chest, keeping me pinned beneath the sheets, tangled in thoughts I couldn’t quiet. So I got up and took a walk—across the parking lot, out toward the open stretch of road, and I kept walking.

At the motorcycle club, I used to slip out early, before the sun was fully up, before anyone else stirred. It was the only time I could breathe. A stolen moment before the world demanded something from me.

Everything is quiet at this hour, wrapped in the hush before dawn.

The highway is empty, just miles of black asphalt stretching in both directions, and I move through the darkness like a ghost, my breath misting in the cold.

I have Jake’s hoodie on, Ryder’s jacket.

It’s not like that night—my desperate flight through the woods—but my body remembers anyway.

The way the cold sank into my bones. The way my bare legs burned.

The way branches clawed at my arms, tearing at me like they wanted to drag me back.

How I could’ve died. And yet, I made it.

I wonder where the club is in relation to here.

I glance down the highway, picturing the distant roar of motorcycle engines on the horizon.

What it would be like if the whole pack came thundering by in their cuts, the screaming skull insignia on their backs.

The thought makes fear twist in my stomach.

The kind that comes with knowing a door is closed, but never locked.

Does Billy even think about me? Does he ever wonder where I went, if I’m safe? Does he miss me?

The last question surprises me, but it shouldn’t.

I know what I was to him—his to own, his to shape, his to control.

But there was a time when I meant more, I know I did.

Does he ever still feel that? Or did he replace me the second I disappeared, trading me for one of the countless girls who were always waiting, eager to take my place at his side?

I push the thoughts aside and focus on where I am now. Here. Alive. Standing on the side of the road, watching the first rays of light break the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of deep blue and violet. That night feels like a lifetime ago. In a way, I guess it is.

And I’m not alone anymore.

The thought softens something in my chest. I picture them—the men who’ve given me this space, this chance to breathe. Jake, with his easy confidence, his unflagging support that never feels heavy. Damian, so easy to fall into step with. Wyatt, protecting me even when I don’t think I need it.

And Ryder.

I inhale slowly, thinking about what Wyatt said the other night. That I should ask myself why Ryder is so worried about me. What it means. The easy answer is that he doesn’t trust me. That he thinks I’ll bring trouble. But I know that’s not it.

No, Ryder watches me like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s bracing himself for impact.

It’s stupid to think about him like this. Imagining something in his eyes when he looks at me, or that there’s a roughness in his voice when he says my name. That the way he carries himself means he’s holding something back.

By the time I return, the sky is fully awake, the sun climbing higher. The crisp bite of morning has softened into an unexpected heat. I shed my jacket, tying it around my waist as I cross the lot.

A truck is parked near the garage. Before I even reach them, Jake hops out, stretching in the sun like a cat. Damian is already leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed, watching me through dark lashes.

“Where’ve you been?” Jake asks, tipping his head.

I shrug, slowing to a stop a few feet away. “Walking.”

Damian lifts a brow but doesn’t question it. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the truck. “We’re heading out. You in?”

I narrow my eyes. “Where?”

Jake grins. “C’mon, Max. It’s Sunday. Obviously, we’re going to church.”

Damian snorts.

I exhale, glancing at the garage. At the life I’m building, piece by piece. Then I look at them, the two people who make it easier. Who remind me that life is more than just surviving.

A spark of joy flickers through me, washing away the weight of my thoughts. “Let’s go.”

I climb into the truck.

We take a dirt track, winding past bare trees and open fields, jostling over uneven ground for a few miles, somewhere roughly behind the garage.

I glance at Jake, and he grins. “Don’t worry, baby. We’re not dumping your body in the woods.”

Damian chuckles darkly. “Not today, anyway.”

I roll my eyes.

Eventually, the truck rolls to a stop in front of a partially built structure.

“Told you we were going to church, didn't I?” Jake grins, opening the passenger door. “This is it. Our place.”

Damian laughs. “Welcome to the temple of bad decisions.”

“This is your house?” I ask, closing the truck door behind me and approaching it with awe. It’s raw and unfinished, but it’s an impressive structure, even bigger than Ryder’s house.

“Yep.” Damian nods, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets as he scans the empty shell of the building.

“C’mon.” Jake steps up onto the unfinished porch and extends a hand to me, pulling me up onto the concrete slab.

There’s a brand-new door that needs unlocking, and inside, the first floor is partially framed with sheets of plywood for walls. The flooring is down, smooth but unfinished, the scent of lumber still detectable in the air.

Damian comes up behind me, his arm slipping around my waist, solid and warm against me. I take in the unfinished walls, the empty spaces waiting to be filled. The house is still finding its shape—just like us. Just like me.

“Picture it,” Jake says, walking ahead of us and pointing. “Over here’s the kitchen. Living room’s there. Dining room in the back.”

“Bedrooms upstairs,” Damian murmurs teasingly.

Jake shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a sawhorse. “It’s got potential, huh?”

“Yeah.” I nod, impressed. “It’s amazing. Are you building this on your own?”

“No,” answers Damian. “Ryder and Wyatt help, too. We took a break over the winter, but now that things are thawing, we’ll start up again soon. Hopefully have it done before the end of the year.”

“Incredible.” I glance around again, taking it in. The effort, the planning…it’s so much more than just walls and a roof. It’s a future. A home. I wonder what that feels like, to build something of your own. To know where you belong. “You really think it'll be done this year?”

Jake nods. “If we actually get our asses in gear, yeah.”

“Which means probably not,” Damian cuts in. “But…you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

My heart skips, warmth spreading in my chest with a flicker of something dangerous—hope. A year from now, will I still be here, standing in this house when it’s done? Or will I be somewhere else, running again, chasing a future I still can’t picture?

And what about them? Am I just passing through, or could I really belong here? They’ve built something here, something solid. I wonder what it would be like to stay and be a part of it.

“Can you picture yourself here?” Damian asks, reading my mind. “In our finished house?”

Security, a dependable future…those things have never been in the cards for me.

Even as a kid, I knew better than to dream about stability.

I learned early that nothing lasts, that the second you get comfortable, life rips it away.

Maybe that’s why I can’t picture it now. Because wanting it feels dangerous.

I shove the thought down, plastering on an easy smile. “What about the upstairs?” I ask, deflecting.

Jake points to a large gap in the plywood ceiling. “It exists. The framework is up. No stairs yet, though.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” says Damian, his arm slipping from my side as he moves away. “I keep trying to tell him.”

He walks under the gap and launches himself upright, a powerful jump. His hand skims the edge of the wood and misses, and he lands with a laugh—pretty gracefully for someone over six feet and packed with muscle.

Jake laughs louder, waits for Damian to get out of the way, and takes a run for it. He leaps into the air and grabs the edge of the plywood ceiling in an impressive display of athleticism.

Damian lets out a low whistle. “Nice work. Show-off.”

Lifting one arm up, then the next, Jake manages to drag himself up until he’s looking down at us through the cut-out from the second floor.

Damian turns to me. “Okay, I’m going to show you the easy way to do this.

” He steps up to the framed wall beneath the cut-out, gripping the wooden beams like a ladder.

His movements are quick and practiced, muscles flexing as he pulls himself higher.

When he’s close enough, he reaches and grabs the ledge of the second floor, hoisting himself through the opening with a final push.

“C’mon,” he says, once he’s up, looking down at me with Jake beside him.

Oh hell.

I walk over to the wall, plant my hands on the first beam, and push myself up. My muscles strain, burning. It’s harder than they made it look, but working in the garage has paid off. By the time I haul myself onto the second floor, my breath is heaving, but I’m exhilarated.

Jake beams at me with approval. “Hey, Maxwell! That was amazing.”

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Finch,” says Damian with an ear-to-ear grin.

I take a theatrical bow, satisfaction buzzing under my skin. I did it. I kept up. More than that—I feel strong.