Page 20 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

“I did. That’s the whole story, Maxwell.” Then, a beat later, “She was just a random fuck.”

The flicker of my pulse is only partly irritation.

“That’s it?” I ask, disbelieving. “You never went on a date or anything? You never saw her after that?”

He shakes his head.

I cross my arms. “Well, that’s not very gentlemanly of you.”

Ryder picks up the bottle and tops up both of our glasses. “You looking for a different answer?”

I force a scoff. “Just making conversation.”

He studies me, expression guarded, like he’s weighing whether or not to push. Then, finally—

“Next question.”

“Okay.” I search my mind, wondering what I dare ask. “Do you ever go on dates at all, or is it always just…random fucks?”

His fingers pause on his glass, but only for a fraction of a second. Then he lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. When he speaks, his voice is smooth and unbothered.

“Depends.”

I narrow my eyes. “On what?”

“The situation.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He gives me a crooked smile. “Sure it is.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Let me rephrase—have you ever actually dated anyone, or is it all just one-night stands?”

His smile drops. The shift is subtle but unmistakable.

“Once,” he answers, serious and final.

I want to pull the thread, ask for more, but there’s something in the way he says it that tells me not to.

Then, just like that, he exhales and shrugs, easy again. “A man’s got needs, Maxwell.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “And there it is.”

He laughs—actually laughs—then lifts his glass to his lips. “What about you?”

I blink. “What about me?”

“You’ve never had a one-night stand?” His gaze holds mine, genuinely curious.

“No,” I tell him honestly, shaking my head. “My last relationship was eight years long.”

He tilts his head, considering. “I guess one night’s not enough for you.” A beat. His voice stays easy. “Or one man.”

It takes a second for his meaning to hit me. Jake and Damian. A flush creeps up the back of my neck, but I force a dry laugh. “Wow. Subtle.”

He shrugs as he repeats my words back to me. “Just making conversation.” He leans back into the couch, broad shoulders shifting, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “I’m not judging.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“No more than you are.”

“Ha.” I reach for my drink, trying to shake the warmth spreading under my skin. “Fair.”

For a few moments, we drink in silence. The warmth of the whiskey seeps into my limbs, loosening something in my chest, while outside, a loud clap of thunder rattles the windows.

Ryder drapes an arm along the back of the couch, his large, tattooed hand drifting closer. His other hand rests on his glass, turning it slightly against his knee. “You settling in at the garage?”

I blink, snapping my gaze away from his hand. "Yeah, why?"

He shrugs, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Just seems like a shit setup. That mattress can’t be comfortable.”

I tip my head back against the couch, exhaling. “Wyatt takes care of me.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Yeah. I bet he does.”

Something about the way he says it makes me laugh uncomfortably. “What, you jealous?”

Ryder’s smile is slow and unreadable. “Of Wyatt? No.”

I wonder if all this talk is because he’s thinking I should be on that uncomfortable mattress right now, instead of here, at his house, disturbing him in the middle of the night.

“I should probably stop crashing here so much,” I volunteer.

But Ryder shakes his head. “We all move around here. Doesn’t matter.” He pauses and gives me a small smile. “You’re one of us now.”

I lift a brow. “That so? You making it official?”

He gives me another small laugh. I completely underestimated how delightful it would be to make Ryder laugh. “Sure. Want a badge or something?”

I smirk. “Nah, I’ll take a raise.”

“Talk to Wyatt.”

I grin and then let out an exaggerated sigh, sinking deeper into the couch. “I could get used to staying here. More comfortable than the garage.”

And before I really think about it, I swing my feet up and drop them onto his lap.

He glances down at them, then back up at me. One brow lifts.

I shrug. “What? Making myself at home.”

Something flickers in his expression and then he gives me an indulgent smile, patting my leg with one hand, and says, “Where am I gonna do my drinking alone at night if you’re sprawled out here?”

I laugh—or try to. A breath of sound, here and gone, swallowed by the shift between us. I become aware of the feel of Ryder’s legs beneath mine, the solidity of them. The brush of his fingers against my skin.

His smile fades. Then, slowly, his hand moves—a barely-there slide over my shin.

I go still.

His touch is warm. Just the lightest pressure, but my breath locks in my throat. The room seems smaller. The air heavier.

His thumb moves, and my stomach tightens.

A beat of silence. His jaw flexes, and then suddenly, as if realizing what he’s doing, he pulls his hand away.

“You should probably go to bed. It’s late.”

My pulse hammers. I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod, pulling my feet back and sitting up quickly. Too quickly.

“Yeah. Right.”

I clear my throat and stand, ignoring the warmth crawling up my neck. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have stayed. Shouldn’t have let the conversation go where it did.

My face is burning with shame.

I head to the hallway, almost free, and force out, “Good talk.”

His response is low, almost as if he’s speaking to himself.

“Go on back to them, then.”

I stop. “What?”

Ryder leans back, stretching his legs out, tipping his glass slightly toward me. His movements are loose, almost lazy. It occurs to me that he might be drunk.

“Your two men.” He says it lightly, but there’s the slightest flicker of scorn behind it.

I’m about to turn away again and ignore him when he says, “Let me ask you something, Maxwell.”

I stop, pulse kicking hard against my ribs. Then, slowly, I face him again.

“How do you pick which bed to sleep in?” he asks. “Or is it just whoever fucked you last?”

A sharp, electric pulse shoots through me—shock, anger, embarrassment—but I don’t let it show. I won’t.

I hold his gaze, refusing to let him see how deep that landed.

Then, with a breath I don’t quite control, I turn and walk away.

I don’t look back.

But I feel his touch burning my skin the whole way down the hall.