Page 2 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

I BLINK AWAKE to a shaft of sunlight piercing through the curtains and pull the thick comforter over my face. The weight of it cocoons me in warmth, making it hard to summon the will to move.

Sleeping here is nothing like the clubhouse, where noise filtered through the walls at all hours—drunken laughter, music, motorcycles rumbling. But here, the silence is total. It wrapped around me as I slept, dense and unfamiliar, pressing against my ears. I slept like the dead.

But eventually heat builds beneath the blankets, forcing me to kick them off. My dress clings uncomfortably to my skin, feeling stale. How long have I been wearing this? Forty-eight hours? Maybe more? I wrinkle my nose.

At least my stomach isn’t screaming anymore, thanks to the pizza that Jake made sure I ate before nodding off again last night.

Dragging myself upright, I shuffle past the fireplace and a big leather chair, down a short hallway to the first floor bathroom.

When I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, I startle.

Smudged mascara rings my eyes like bruises, stark against my pale skin.

My hair is tangled beyond reason, and the dress—wrinkled and way past its expiration date—looks even worse under the harsh bathroom light. A shower is non-negotiable.

I strip down and step into the narrow shower stall, twisting the knob until steam rises around me.

The hot water stings my skin in the best way, washing away sweat, exhaustion, and the remnants of the past two days.

I lather with cheap white soap, savoring the clean scent, then work equally cheap shampoo through my hair.

By the time I step out onto the gray shag mat and wrap myself in a faded towel, I feel almost human again.

The bathroom, like the kitchen, is old-fashioned. Linoleum floors, a seashell-shaped sink, and seafoam green tiles halfway up the wall.

I glance around, frowning, looking for something that might tell me more about who these men are. There are no stray razors or crumpled towels, no damp clothes kicked into the corner. Just a set of immaculately folded towels and an untouched first-aid kit under the sink.

There are four of them, but I don’t know exactly who lives here or how any of this works. They could be drug dealers, or survivalists. Maybe this place is a safe house.

But I suspect these men are dangerous—especially Ryder.

Not that that scares me. I’m used to dangerous men. So long as they’re less dangerous than the ones I left behind.

Billy wasn’t always so bad. When we were kids, he looked out for me.

Once, he made me feel safe. Wanted. But the more powerful he got, the more entitled he felt—to respect, to loyalty, to women. I became just another body in his bed, background to his ego. First, I stopped mattering to him. Then, somehow, I stopped mattering to myself.

But he crossed a line and I left. That counts for something.

Whatever comes next, I didn’t let him erase me. I held on to something.

And there’s a little flicker of power in me now, because I chose something different.

Wiping steam off the mirror, I rub the last of the mascara off my lower lids and step back to study my reflection.

I haven’t really looked at myself in a long time. Sure, I checked my hair, made sure I more or less looked up to Billy’s standards, but I learned to do it without really seeing myself. Now I look closely, as if meeting a stranger for the first time.

Light brown hair that falls past my shoulders, hints of gold at my crown that will show more clearly when my hair dries. Unusual violet eyes. My skin is pale but smooth, my body curvy and feminine.

Looking at myself now surprises me. I like what I see.

The perfect handful of each high, firm breast. Small, pert nipples. The smooth line of my abdomen, the soft curve of my hips.

Maybe it’s the steamy heat. Or the privacy. Or the ache that comes from going for so long without pleasure. But looking at myself like this feels both obscene and electric—like touching something forbidden and finding it alive under your fingers.

My hands trail over my stomach and up to my breasts. I cup them, testing the weight and firmness. The touch feels illicit, and somehow foreign. But I don’t stop.

Instead, my mind drifts. I find myself thinking of the men I met last night. Jake, with his easy grin and warm eyes. Damian, with his strangely alluring quiet-predator vibe. Even Wyatt—built like he could snap someone in half.

But it’s Ryder my thoughts keep circling around. Rough, tattooed hands gripping my hips. Massive body caging mine as he crowds me against the sink.

He wouldn’t be gentle. He wouldn’t be shy. He’d take. Press me forward, unzip his jeans, and push inside without hesitation—until I was panting, gasping, clinging to the edge of the counter.

Heat unfurls low in my belly, and I squeeze my thighs together, breath shuddering. I haven’t felt like this in so long, the sheer force of it leaves me unsteady.

I bring a finger to my lips, wetting it, then slip it between my legs, teasing, circling—

It doesn’t take long. Within minutes, pleasure crashes through me, sharp and blinding. I grip the sink, biting my lip to stifle a moan, and when it passes, I’m left trembling.

Reality settles in seconds later. Masturbating in a stranger’s bathroom? Jesus.

But I don’t regret it. If anything, I feel...relieved. Like something locked inside me has been shaken loose.

I pull my dress back on, brush my teeth with some toothpaste on my finger, and follow the scent of coffee toward the kitchen. The house is quiet, but when I step inside and see Ryder standing at the sink, my pulse kicks up.

Of all people, it had to be him.

Considering what I just imagined about him, I would have preferred literally anyone else.

“Hey,” I say, aiming for casual.

He turns, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. The image from my fantasy is too fresh, too accurate—broad shoulders, tattooed arms, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that seem to see straight through me. My cheeks heat.

I need to get a grip.

“Morning,” he says. His gaze sweeps over me, and I shift, newly aware of my bare legs and the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear—especially after what I just did.

“Is Jake around?” I ask, just for something to say. Jake feels like a safe topic.

“He’s at work.” Ryder dries his hands with a dish towel and leans back against the counter. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah. Really well.” Between the lingering effects of the sedative, the sheer exhaustion of my escape, and the silence in this house, I can’t even remember a time I slept quite so deeply.

He nods once, then gestures toward the coffee pot. “Want some?”

“Please.”

He pulls a mug from the cabinet, pours, and hands it to me. His sleeves are pushed up just far enough to reveal the ink on his forearms, and I try not to stare. I take the cup with both hands, grateful for the distraction, letting the heat seep into my fingers.

“Wyatt has a job for you,” he says, getting straight to the point. “If you want it.”

I blink. “A job?”

“We run a garage a few miles down. Could use someone to handle the admin. Until you figure things out. Wyatt’s set up a bed in the back room. It’s not much, but it’s a place to lay your head.”

My heart soars. Just like that, he’s offering me a job and a place to stay. It almost seems too good to be true.

“For real?” I ask, too fast. “That’s...that would be amazing. Thank you.”

His eyes flick over the dress again. “Wyatt or Damian might have something you can wear once we get to the shop. It won’t fit great.”

“I’ll take anything warmer than this,” I say, glancing down.

He gives a small nod. “Finish your coffee. I’ll take you over.”

I wrap my hands tighter around the mug, savoring the warmth. This small hope that I can make it out here feels almost unreal. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel entirely lost.

I climb into the truck beside Ryder, drowning in one of his coats—a big, army-green parka warm with the scent of pine, clean soap, and…

him . Either the man emits pure pheromones, or this jacket has magic woven into the lining, because I want to bury my face in it and inhale like it could get me high.

Instead, I hide my hands in the sleeves and stare out the window, hoping he can’t see the way my pulse is thudding in my throat.

He heads toward the road, but turns off onto a dirt track that runs beside it, half-hidden behind a line of brush.

We bounce along it in silence, and I try to focus on the view outside the window—fields and more fields—feigning indifference to the six-and-a-half-foot bearded god beside me.

But it’s impossible.

His presence assaults my senses. The scent of him, the inked knuckles gripping the wheel, the way his thighs stretch his jeans tight.

He’s older than me, at least mid-thirties, and exudes a kind of silent dominance.

No effort to charm, no need to fill the silence.

He hasn’t said a word since we got in the truck.

Not cold, exactly. Just…impossible to read. I wish I could ignore him half as easily as he ignores me.

The memory of my bathroom fantasy is still too fresh in my mind when, five minutes later, the truck rattles onto a gravel lot in front of a long, low building. I jump out quickly, desperate to clear my head.

The building is a cement block with a sign out front that reads Leathernecks Auto . Half a dozen cars are parked outside, but other than a distant farmhouse, the place stands alone, facing an empty road.

“You get a lot of customers here?” I ask.

“Enough,” Ryder says, pushing the door open. A bell jingles overhead.

Inside, it smells like new rubber and gasoline. Concrete floors, shelves of auto supplies. An open laptop sits on the back counter beside a stool. Wyatt leans against the counter, arms crossed, while Damian lounges against a glass display case, watching us enter with his usual easy amusement.

“Morning, boys,” Ryder greets them. They nod back.

“How’s it goin’, Max?” Damian drawls, hazel eyes skating over my bare legs in an echo of the way Ryder looked at me earlier.

“Good,” I say, a hint of warmth creeping up my neck. “Hi.”

He gives me a slow smile that makes my cheeks prickle, and I look away, feigning interest in my surroundings.

“You’ll be working with these assholes,” Ryder says, a hint of affection in his tone. “Wyatt will get you sorted.”

I nod.

When Ryder leaves, Wyatt steps around the counter and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s find you something warmer to wear.”

I follow him to the back of the shop. Tucked behind the work area is a staff lounge, informal and lived-in.

A small kitchen lines one wall, its dark countertops and mismatched cabinets looking like they’ve been salvaged from different decades.

A dented fridge hums in the corner, covered in faded stickers and old job invoices stuck under magnets.

There’s a well-used coffeemaker and a sink cluttered with a few abandoned mugs.

Through an open door, I see a bathroom with a shower stall—good to know.

A worn plaid couch and two mismatched chairs face a TV mounted to the wall, and along the far wall is a row of battered metal lockers, dented from years of use.

Wyatt moves toward a locker, pulling it open. “We keep extra uniforms back here. Don’t think we’ve got your size, but…” He pulls out a pair of navy coveralls and holds them up by the shoulder, examining them critically. “Best we can do,” he says as he hands them to me.

I take them, running my fingers over the Leathernecks patch stitched onto the front. The fabric is thick and sturdy.

“Better than freezing your ass off in that dress,” he adds, arching his eyebrow.

I can’t argue with that. I unzip the coveralls and step into them, pulling them up over my dress. I roll up the sleeves and pant legs, but they still hang loose, swallowing me whole. Compared to my dress, though, it feels like armor. Like a blanket. I exhale, feeling more at ease already.

Wyatt jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re crashing.”

I follow him past a utility closet to a closed door. He pushes it open, flipping on a harsh overhead light.

It’s a small storage room. Metal shelves line one wall, stacked with old boxes and spare parts. In the center is a mattress mounted on milk crates, low to the ground, with a folded blanket and a flat pillow on top.

“It’s not much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s yours as long as you need it.”

I step inside and touch the blanket.

“The door doesn’t lock,” he adds. “But no one’s gonna bother you here. We lock the shop at night and I live upstairs.”

“I love it,” I say with a grateful smile, and he gives me a curious look.

“I guess you’re easy to please.”

He pulls a cardboard box down from a shelf, rummaging until he finds a pair of packaged socks. They’re white with a green-and-red motor oil logo, and they might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My feet have been cold for days.

“Thank you,” I say, hugging them to my chest.

He studies me. “How did you get here, anyway? Somebody drop you off?”

“No.” I shake my head. I’m not sure how much of my story to share yet, or how much I want to, so I stick to the facts. “I…walked.”

“Walked?” His eyebrows shoot up. He leans back against a shelf, crossing his arms over his chest. “Walked from where?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I came through the woods.”

His brow furrows. “There’s nothing around here for miles.” But when I don’t say anything else, he drops his arms and softens. “When you’re ready, we can talk about where you came from. What you want to do next. For now, put those on and meet me in the shop.”

He backs out with a nod and pulls the door shut.

I exhale, the weight of the past forty-eight hours pressing down on me. My body is clean, my feet are warm, and for the first time ever, I have a place to sleep that’s just mine.

I tear open the socks and slide them on with a quiet sigh. They’re too big, bunching up over my ankles, but I don’t care.

I’m in the back room of an auto body shop, tugging on free oversized socks with a motor oil logo on them like it’s the best gift I’ve ever received, in a place that belongs to strangers.

But I’ve slept in rooms with peeling paint and mildewed rugs, where the beds had plastic sheets. Rooms with no doors, or with other kids who stole from you while you slept.

When you grow up in the system, you learn fast how to make yourself at home in other people’s spaces, with borrowed things.

I’m good at slipping into lives that were never meant to include me. At being grateful. At not expecting to stay.

This isn’t even a real bedroom. But everything these men have given me has been offered freely—food, warm socks, a place to sleep—no price, no catch.

Maybe it won’t last. Probably it won’t. But some small, stubborn part of me wishes it could.

For now, though, it feels more like home than anywhere I’ve been in a long time.