Page 23 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

WYATT ISN’T IN the kitchen when I get up. The coffee pot is half empty, its warmth long gone. The lights are on in the garage, and a drill revs as I pour my cereal.

He’s working already.

I go back to bed after my cereal and lie there, staring blankly at the shelves of dusty boxes, my heart lead-heavy in my chest.

Wyatt has been a hugely anchoring presence to me here. He’s the one who gave me a place to sleep, a job—a home. Protected me. And now I can’t imagine what he thinks of me after what he saw.

I don’t get up again until I hear Damian show up for work.

The bell rings over the shop door followed by the low sound of men’s voices in the garage.

I wonder how they’re handling things. It’s different with Damian.

Wyatt’s furious with him, too, I’m sure.

But Damian is his peer and his friend. I’m something closer to a daughter.

The thought makes fresh shame wash over me.

I get up and drag my fingers through my hair, pulling it into a low ponytail. Slip on my coveralls. Take a deep breath.

Then I walk over to the garage and feel it immediately—an energy shift so sharp it makes my stomach clench. The air is icicles. Tension wraps around my ribs like barbed wire.

Wyatt is at the hood of the Fastback, hands braced on either side, his head bent like he’s trying to rein something in.

His forearms flex as he grips the metal, knuckles pale, the tendons in his hands tight as cables.

He’s a storm in a man’s body, his fingers digging into the car like it’s the only thing stopping him from breaking something.

He’s clearly aware that I’ve walked in, but he doesn’t look up.

It’s a relief to see Damian leaning against the workbench with a clipboard in his hands—to not be alone with the tension emanating from Wyatt. I give him a tight smile that’s more like a grimace and he winks, making a little flutter of warmth spread through my chest.

There’s a thud and a clang, as Wyatt twists something too hard, making his wrench slip. “Ah, for fuck’s sake!” he spits out in frustration. Damian widens his eyes at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile, and he stage-whispers, “Dad’s mad.”

I press my lips together, grateful for the levity, but down in the bay, Wyatt snaps.

He slams the hood of the Fastback down with a violence that makes me flinch, and turns on Damian, eyes flashing. “You think this is funny?”

The teasing edge in Damian’s expression hardens and he turns to Wyatt, his smile dropping like a switch flipped.

“Oh c’mon, old man,” he bites out. “Enough with the moral fucking outrage. Storming around here like we killed your goddamn dog. You a fucking saint? You never fucked anyone before? Sorry if you’re jealous, man, but she made her choice. ”

And then Wyatt explodes. He kicks the tool cart beside him, knocking it over and sending sockets scattering, and storms toward us so suddenly I instinctively step back. The air snaps with electricity.

“Are you a goddamn child?” he bellows at Damian, blue eyes fierce with rage, muscles coiled so tightly I think he might hit him.

Damian’s face gets steely and cold. The energy between them is a hair trigger.

“You have a house, Damian. A job history. Identification. A fucking safety net.” He jabs a finger toward me, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

“She doesn’t. You think Ryder won’t kick her out?

You think I won’t? What’s going to happen to your little fuck toy when she’s got nowhere else to go? ”

I reel back like he actually slapped me. My breath stalls, my skin goes hot, shock flaring through me.

Damian clocks my reaction instantly. His shoulders set and he steps forward toward Wyatt, planting himself between us.

“You need to calm the fuck down.” He speaks in a hard, authoritative voice I’m not used to hearing from him. A Navy SEAL’s voice. The kind that commands men under fire.

Wyatt doesn’t move. His jaw clenches, muscles in his forearms flexing, like he’s fighting the instinct to lash out again.

Damian doesn’t give him the chance.

“You made your point,” he says, measured but sharp. “You’re fucking mad. We get it.”

Wyatt exhales through his nose, fists clenching, then releasing. Then he shakes his head dismissively. Like he just can’t deal with this.

The moment breaks.

Damian tips his head toward the Chevy. “C’mon, Finch. You can help me today.”

Wyatt turns away, and I let Damian pull me down into the bay.

The morning is hell.

No one speaks.

The silence is uncomfortably loaded, broken only by the occasional clatter of tools, the whir of a drill, the scrape of metal on metal.

I sit on the floor beside the Chevy while Damian’s half under it, waiting for him to pass me parts for cleaning, and time crawls.

Then, finally, at eleven o’clock, Wyatt breaks the silence. He walks through the bay, shrugging on his jacket, and stops just long enough to point at me.

“You need to be at Ryder’s house by noon.”

Not a question. And before I can answer, he’s already striding past me, out the bay doors.

Through the row of windows, I watch him climb into Damian’s truck, throw it into gear, and drive off.

A beat of silence. Then Damian lets out a slow, incredulous breath. “That’s my fucking truck.”

I huff out a humorless laugh, turning to him. “How am I supposed to get to the house?”

“Guess he really wanted to make sure you got the full experience. What a fucking asshole.”

“I have to walk?”

Damian rolls his eyes, looking annoyed. “I’ll come with you.”

I want to say yes. Having Damian there would make this easier. He’s on my side. He’s as “guilty” as I am. But there’s a reason Wyatt wants me to go alone. If Ryder wanted both of us, Wyatt would’ve said so. And I don’t want to risk making him any angrier than I already have.

Besides, it was fighting for myself that got me here. Fighting for myself that got me out of the senator’s car. If I can’t face this alone, then I haven’t learned a thing.

I shake my head. “No. I’ll go alone.”

Damian frowns. “Finch—”

“If he wanted both of us, he would’ve said so.” I wave a hand, dismissive. “Whatever they have to say, I’m not afraid.”

For the first time, a shadow of worry flickers across his face.

“If they wanna kick you out or whatever, fuck that.” His jaw tightens. “Jake and I have a house. You’ll just stay with us.”

I don’t think it works that way in this little community they’ve built, but I smile reassuringly anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

Damian holds my gaze for a long second and then sighs, tipping his head toward the door in resignation. “Better get going then. That’s a three-mile walk. It’ll take you a little while.”

I have the sudden urge to stand on my toes and kiss him. Instead, I press my lips together, give him a small shrug, and grab my coat.

The dirt road stretches long and empty ahead of me. It’s April, but the chill still lingers, biting at my cheeks, nipping at my fingers. I tighten Ryder’s parka around myself against the wind and think about what I’ll need if I have to leave.

A coat, first of all. I can’t keep this one.

I have some money saved up, even after buying clothes and contributing to meals. Just cash sitting in an envelope. I’d have to open a bank account, integrate into the normal world. But I could do it.

I’ve been starting over since I was first taken away from my mother at age six. It’s never been easy, but it’s something I know I can do.

So this? This is nothing.

I should’ve known better. I should’ve known it couldn’t last. Nothing ever does.

I let myself get comfortable. That was the mistake.

I let myself fall too fast and too deep. I let myself believe that I could keep them. That I had a place with them.

Jake and Damian. The way I let them pull me in…

I should know better than to trust that kind of devotion.

Know better than to think it could mean something.

It hurts now, but eventually it would’ve ended anyway.

Ryder and Wyatt are doing me a favor by pulling the Band-Aid off, by reminding me of my place in the world. Reminding me that I need to be strong.

Wyatt . I was a fool to let myself believe he was someone who cared. My idiocy makes heat flame over my cheeks.

And Ryder. Ryder I’ve been a fool about since day one. I spent too much time trying to read between the lines, waiting for something that was never going to come.

I should’ve been smarter. Should’ve remembered how this always ends.

I’ve felt it a million times before. A foster home that didn’t keep me. A temporary placement that turned permanent—until it wasn’t. A hundred doors closing in a hundred different ways.

They’re about to shut this one, too.

So I’ll be ready.

The land out here is quiet and open. On my right is the highway, running parallel to the dirt road, a lonely two-lane stretch of asphalt that’s usually empty. On my left, nothing but fields and tree lines stretching into forever.

But I know what’s behind those trees. Somewhere out there, just beyond my sightline, is the clubhouse. It’s close enough to reach on foot, but far enough to take all night. I don’t know where it is, exactly—but wherever it is, it’s not far enough.

The memory comes in flashes. The brutal cold sinking into my legs, my Converse soaked through with snow, the dizzying exhaustion I fought the whole way.

It feels like a lifetime ago. In the two months I’ve been here, this place has become my home. But I let myself get complacent.

When I first hear the low rumble of motorcycles in the distance, I think my imagination must have conjured them up. Too much thinking about the O.D., and now I’m hearing things.

But the sound grows. I feel it before I see them. The vibration threading through the air. The shift in pressure before they break the horizon. And then I see them.

Two riders.

Both dressed in dark layers, faces obscured by helmets. One bike is blacked-out, matte and unmarked. The other gleams in the light, chrome catching the sun.