Page 27 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

WYATT COMES, AND Wyatt goes, and soon his absences stretch longer than his presence.

“Where is he going all the time?” I ask Jake and Damian, and their non-answers only make me angrier.

Damian, amused by my frustration, gives me nothing. Jake, more careful, just shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Max. He’s just got some work to take care of right now.”

But I do worry.

I miss him. His wry humor, his indulgent patience, our little routines. Waking up to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, watching TV together upstairs in the evenings, the way silence could settle so easily between us.

And when he’s gone, I feel it.

He tells me to sleep upstairs in his bed when he’s away—a luxury compared to my bed downstairs.

The mattress is firm, the bedding soft, carrying his scent in a way that makes my chest tighten.

But I sleep restlessly, listening for footsteps that never come, for the door to open, for his familiar presence to fill the space again.

Little things remind me of him. The coffee mug still sitting in the drying rack, the leather jacket draped over the back of a chair like he’ll be back any second to grab it. A book on the genocide in Rwanda sitting on his nightstand, his place marked only halfway through.

And beneath it all, the gnawing fear that it’s my fault. That he can’t forgive me for what he saw in the garage that day. That it’s easier for him to be anywhere but here. That I drove him from his home.

He’d started going away for four or five days. Then a week. Now it’s weeks at a time. I feel like I’m permanently holding my breath, waiting for him to come back.

The garage gets busy with spring maintenance jobs, and soon Damian and I are too swamped to waste time on anything but work. The long, lazy stretches of downtime are gone, replaced by a steady flow of cars and back-to-back repairs.

By the time we close up for the day, I’m exhausted.

Damian and Jake are still spending their nights at the unfinished house, pushing to get it move-in ready.

Some nights, Damian kisses me on the forehead before he heads up to meet Jake, affectionate and familiar.

Other nights, it’s more than that—pushed up against a wall, hands rough and eager until Damian is stiffening against me, burying a curse against my neck before he finally forces himself to pull away.

We don’t risk the garage floor anymore—lesson learned.

Now it’s the office, the bathroom, anywhere with a lock.

But I don’t even care if we get caught. At this point, I’d probably welcome the attention. It’s better than all this time spent alone.

By early June, the summer heat starts to settle in, and Damian shows up to work with someone new.

“This is Luis,” he says. “He’ll be helping out while Wyatt’s gone.”

And just like that, Wyatt’s absence is no longer temporary. It’s something we need to adjust to.

Damian starts managing our jobs and workflow, moving into the office, and I find myself more often than not working in the bay with Luis.

Luis is nice. Funny, laidback, competent. He’s around Damian’s age. But he’s not Damian.

And he’s definitely not Wyatt.

So no matter how easygoing he is, the change unsettles me.

I’m leaning against the workbench, sorting through a box of spare parts, half-listening to Luis curse at a rusted bolt, when Damian drops his car keys into my hands.

“Need you to go up to the house, Finch.”

I frown, looking at the keys in my hand. “Uh, no thanks.”

He gives me a flat look, unimpressed. “Parts shipment got sent to Ryder’s place by mistake. We need it here now.”

I put a hand on my hip. “Then go get it.”

Damian exhales sharply, already turning away. “Nope. Luis is elbow-deep in the transmission swap, and I need the bay cleared for the Lexus.” He waves a hand over his shoulder, done with the conversation. “Just run up there, get the damn box, and bring it back.”

I hesitate.

Just the idea of standing on Ryder’s porch and knocking on his door makes my stomach twist, but Damian’s already closing the office door behind him. The discussion is over.

So I go.

I grip the wheel the whole way, the same way I clench my jaw—anxiety sitting heavy in my chest. Before I know it, I’m pulling into the gravel driveway, dust kicking up behind me. A creeping unease settles over me as I cut the engine.

Every time Ryder and I are alone, it goes sideways. A sharp comment, a look that lingers too long, a silence that drags with something unspoken. One minute, he’s barely acknowledging me. The next, he’s cutting me down with words that feel like a test I don’t know how to pass.

And I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that everything I do annoys him, or the fact that I still relentlessly want his attention anyway.

Avoiding him is just easier. Easier than pretending I don’t care what he thinks of me. But I can’t avoid him forever. As Ryder said himself, we live in a community. Still, I wish I knew how to keep him from getting under my skin.

I square my shoulders and get out of the truck, kicking gravel as I cross to the covered wooden porch. When I get to the door I hesitate just for a second before I knock. I tell myself I can handle it. That this will be quick. In and out. No sparks. No barbs. No damage.

Seconds stretch. I find myself hoping he’s not home, then hoping he is. And finally—footsteps. The door swings open.

Ryder fills the doorway, his shirt pulled tight across solid shoulders, and barely greets me—no nod, no half-smile, nothing remotely human. He crosses inked forearms over his chest and frowns. A flicker of something shifts in those dark, unreadable eyes.

Surprise.

My stomach tightens. Heat licks up my neck. My pulse trips in my throat. I hate that my body reacts before my brain catches up.

“Hello,” he says, his voice edged with cool irony, a single word meant to convey far too much. That he wasn’t expecting me — ever . That my presence alone says something. A surrender or a challenge. His gaze drags over me, assessing and unapologetic.

I suck in a breath and lift my chin. “A shipment got delivered here by mistake. Damian needs it.”

“And he sent you? ” He lifts a brow and his mouth twitches with what looks like amusement, but he steps back, waving me through with his hand. “Okay. Kitchen.”

I step past him, catching his scent as I walk by, cedar, leather, soap and something else…something warm and familiar.

Him.

My pulse jitters, but I keep moving. Keep my focus on the task.

The box on the kitchen floor is bigger than I expected. Nearly three feet long, thick cardboard reinforced with plastic straps, edges dented from being dragged instead of carried. Unless it’s full of styrofoam popcorn, it doesn’t look like the kind of thing I can lift myself.

I crouch, fingers searching for any kind of grip, and try to lift it.

My arms strain. My legs burn. It barely budges. It shifts an inch before I have to let go, letting it drop back onto the floor.

I exhale sharply, adjust my stance, wedge my fingers under the edge again.

The weight is brutal—not just dense but awkward, like the guts of a car packed into a coffin.

Gritting my teeth, I plant my feet, grip the box with everything I’ve got, and try again.

Once again, the box slides about an inch before my arms give out.

I don’t know what’s inside. An engine block? A lead-filled safe?

“Need help?” comes Ryder’s voice behind me.

I don’t turn around. “I’ve got it, thanks.”

One more time. I lean into it, using my legs, and hold my breath as I strain, lifting it a laughable half inch before gravity wins again.

There is no way I can lift this. I’ll have to go back to the garage and tell Damian to get his damn box himself.

I turn, flushed with heat and heart hammering, ready to make my excuses and leave, when Ryder steps past me, crouches, and hoists the box up smoothly, muscles flexing obscenely up the length of his arms.

He casts me a look over his shoulder—brow arched, the faintest flicker of smugness in his eyes—and I exhale through my nose, stepping back.

Fine.

Without a word, he turns and strides toward the door, the box solid in his arms like it weighs nothing.

I should say something. Bite out a thanks. Instead, I just stare at his biceps tensing, huge shoulders flexing under his shirt, before I snap my mouth shut, and follow him outside.

The late afternoon air is heavy, thick with the building heat of the day, cicadas humming, sun gleaming off the windshield. Ryder’s hair, tied back loose, catches the light, turning gold.

He moves like he always does—at ease in his body, efficient, sure of himself in a way that makes something in my chest pull tight. For the first time, I really consider what it would be like to follow Ryder into battle. To trust him when everything is on the line.

He radiates power. The sheer force of his certainty, the way he moves like he’s already calculated every outcome, would make anyone feel safe. He has the kind of strength that makes people fall in line without question.

I can’t imagine what the four of them must’ve gone through together. But I kind of get what it means to stand behind a man like that. He feels unbreakable. Even when he’s pissing me off, he’s the one I’d bet on.

The truth is—I already have. This place runs because of him. And I’m still in it, still here, because he hasn’t decided otherwise.

I think back to waking up in his house for the first time. The weight in my limbs, the grogginess in my head. The remnants of a dream that turned out to be memory—a Viking with rough hands and blond hair lifting me from the cold and carrying me inside.

When I needed someone most, it was Ryder who found me. Ryder who brought me to safety.

The tailgate creaks as Ryder lowers it and I blink, the weight of my thoughts settling as he loads the box effortlessly into the truck bed, metal groaning. Then he straightens and turns, leaning against the side of the truck and crossing his arms.