Page 19 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE HOUSE IS quiet, but sleep won’t come. After we left the boys’ place and came back here, I thought I’d collapse. Damian’s bed is ten times more comfortable than mine in the garage. I’m warm, tangled in his arm, the scent of him and Jake still clinging to my skin. I should feel sated and sleepy.

But my mind won’t shut off. It runs in circles, old memories rolling in like they’ve been waiting for a moment of stillness to strike.

I dreamt about Billy.

Not the violent Billy. Not the charismatic leader of the O.D.

I dreamt about the boy before the coldness set in, before his charm hardened into something ruthless.

Sixteen-year-old Billy—raw, intense and hopeful.

A version of him that got buried over time, until I could only find it in his most unguarded moments.

When he was losing himself in me, when pleasure unraveled him.

When, for just a second, he was real again.

Except in the dream, it wasn’t pleasure. It was a plea.

He reached for me, desperate, his expression agony. And I woke up drowning in memories.

I exhale slowly, shifting against the mattress. Damian stirs beside me, tightening his grip in his sleep. On the other bed, Jake’s breathing is steady—deep and undisturbed.

I’m right where I belong, but the second I close my eyes, Billy is there, reaching for me.

Restlessness crawls under my skin, tightening my throat. I need air and space.

Carefully, I untangle myself from Damian’s heavy arm and pull one of his hoodies over my head, tugging it down over my bare thighs. My pants are somewhere in the dark, but I don’t need them. The clock on his nightstand reads 2:34 a.m.—too late for a walk anyway. I just need a moment. A breath.

My footsteps are light as I move down the hall, careful not to wake anyone, but a dim glow spills from the living room, stopping me short.

Ryder sits on the couch, forearms braced against his thighs, a half-empty glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. His gaze is distant, lost somewhere else, but the second I step into view, his eyes snap to mine—dark and full of unsettled weather.

I take him in the way I always do. The shadow of his beard. The tension in his shoulders. The way his tattoos shift when he moves. The way I can never help but notice how beautiful he is—cut rough, all muscle and power.

His gaze runs over me—Damian’s hoodie, no pants, bare legs.

“What are you doing here?” I ask stupidly.

“I live here,” he says dryly. “How about you?”

I suck in a breath. Why do I always feel like an absolute tool around this man? “I was going to step out.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Without pants?”

I lift my chin. “I just need some air.”

His lips twitch—almost a smile. “Suit yourself.”

I don’t bother responding. I just turn and head outside.

The porch is cold. The wind cuts through me, whips at my legs, but I welcome it, breathing in deep. The air is thick with the scent of rain, and a low rumble rolls across the sky. Seconds later, a crack of thunder splits the air, and the sky opens up.

Rain sheets down in an instant, slanting at an angle that sends drops ricocheting onto the porch, stinging against my skin like tiny bullets. I take one last inhale, letting the cold bite into me, then step back inside.

I should go to bed.

But I don’t.

Instead, I pause at the living room, lingering. Maybe it’s because sleep still feels impossible. Or maybe it’s because Ryder is still sitting there, alone.

“Back so soon?” he murmurs, irony laced in his tone.

Something tightens low in my stomach, forbidden and unwelcome. I know I shouldn’t feel that subtle pull, like gravity rearranging itself whenever he’s near. But I can’t resist it.

I give him a wry smile, not sure what to say or do.

But he does.

He nudges the bottle toward me. “Have a drink.”

I hesitate for half a second. Then— fuck it.

I drop onto the couch beside him. With a quiet sigh, he pushes to his feet, takes a highball glass out of the cabinet, and passes it to me. I pour and take a sip. The whiskey burns, warm and biting, cutting through the discomfort that’s been clinging to me since I woke up.

As he sits back down, he watches me, dark eyes raking over me in that that slow way of his. Like he sees too much.

Wyatt’s voice echoes in my head: Maybe you should be asking yourself why he’s so damn worried about you in the first place.

But he isn’t worried about me, I remind myself. He’s worried about what I might bring crashing down on them.

I take another sip, letting the burn wash through me, and my gaze lands on the coffee table.

A notebook lies open in front of him, a printed list resting on top of it. A pen beside it, like he’s been taking notes. The list catches my eye. Something about the names.

Ironclad Auto Detail

Buckner’s Smokehouse

Hudson’s Tire & Lube

Golden Glow Tanning Salon

I know these names.

“What are you doing?” I ask before thinking. “Looking for fake businesses?”

His eyes narrow, a sudden spark of interest in them that tightens the air between us.

“What makes you say that?” His voice is calm. Too calm.

Shit.

I recognize these names because I’ve seen them on lists like this before—piled on Billy’s desk, stacked with discarded papers, scrawled in his handwriting. They’re fronts. All of them. The club runs money through them.

I scramble, trying to deflect. “There’s just always motorcycles outside that tanning salon. Like, how many bikers are obsessed withgetting the perfect tan?”

For a second, I think I’ve played it off. But Ryder’s brow creases with interest. Like I’ve said something he never thought of.

A slow, steady unease creeps up my spine. I take another sip of whiskey and fight the urge to fill the silence.

The moment drags.

My eyes wander to his forearm—how the muscles move as he swirls his drink, fingers tapping idly against the glass. A long scar runs down it, half-covered by the dragon inked across it, its coiled body twisting with every flex of his hand.

And for one stupid, embarrassing moment, I picture those arms, those hands, braced against a mattress. The dragon stretching and tightening with his strength. With his movement.

Jesus. Nope.

I tear my gaze away, scanning the room like I’m searching for an exit. My eyes land on a framed photo on the shelf—one I’ve noticed before but never asked about.

I seize the lifeline and point to it. “Where was that taken?”

He doesn’t have to glance at the photo to know what I’m talking about. “Don’t remember anymore. That was a good six or seven years ago now.”

I push to my feet, closing the distance between me and the shelf, anything to put space between me and my own damn thoughts. The photo is small, in a simple wood frame.

Ryder, Jake, Damian, and Wyatt stand together, dressed in black military uniforms, in front of a thick scrub of bushes.

Their jaws are scraped clean, hair worn short.

Ryder in particular looks younger—but harder.

There’s no smiling, no arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

Just four men standing in formation. A unit.

I shift, and my fingers brush against my thigh. Bare skin.

Heat crawls up my neck as I realize the hoodie has ridden up high, leaving the curve of my legs completely bare beneath it. A flush of embarrassment surges through me, and I tug the hem down sharply, as if that somehow erases the moment.

Behind me, a quiet inhale.

A prickle of awareness skates across my skin.

I keep my eyes on the photo. On Ryder’s close-cropped hair and Damian’s scowl.

On Wyatt’s sharp jaw and Jake’s thousand-yard stare.

They all look so much younger, but not in the least bit softer.

They look harder. Meaner. Tougher. A tight, lethal unit.

They’re all impressively strong now, but back then, they were deadly.

“Wyatt was a Marine, right?” I ask.

“Yup. Marine Force Reconnaissance.”

“And Damian?”

“Navy SEAL.”

“Jake?”

“Just a nerd. He was recruited out of MIT.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I turn, finally, and catch him looking—his gaze dragging up my bare legs before meeting my eyes.

My cheeks warm, but I raise my eyebrows, feigning nonchalance. “And you?”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t looking.

“Delta.”

I try to ignore the thrumming of my pulse and keep the conversation going. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to take orders.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face.

“I’m not. I prefer to give them.”

Heat flares in my chest, and I swallow it down.

Ryder giving orders.

He’s talking about the military. That’s all.

“So you led them?”

“Yep.”

“That why you don’t take direction too well?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Something like that.”

“And what do you guys actually do now?”

He leans back, and I try not to notice the way his t-shirt clings to broad shoulders and solid muscle, the fabric just barely loose enough to hint at the strength beneath. Or the way his voice settles low in his chest, rough and steady, like it could command anyone to do anything.

“Auto mechanics.”

I snort. “Right.”

“You ask a lot of questions, Maxwell.”

“And you give a lot of bullshit answers.”

His mouth twitches like he almost— almost —finds me amusing. Then, to my surprise, he sits upright again and shrugs. “Fine. I’ll answer anything you want. Straight.”

That catches me off guard. I sink back onto the couch beside him and put my empty glass on the table. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

For a second, I consider asking about the list, but I'm afraid to bring it up again. So instead, I go for something else. Something that’s been clawing at me.

“Okay. That woman from before. The one I saw leaving your place that day. Who was she?”

He frowns like he’s searching his memory.

I roll my eyes. “The blonde? Nice coat? Left in an Uber?”

Realization dawns, and he actually smiles slightly, as if he can’t believe I’m asking this. Finally he answers, “No one.”

“C’mon!” I exclaim. “You said you would answer anything.”