Page 28 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

I should get in the truck. Say thank you. Leave. But Ryder doesn’t move, and neither do I.

His dark eyes run over my face, searching for something, and finally he says: “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

I shift my weight and kick at the gravel. “Yeah, well…been busy.”

He arches a brow. “Too busy to stop avoiding me?”

I open my mouth to reply, but his words register a second too late, my response stuttering on my tongue.

Clever . But snarky.

I stiffen. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“No?”

I inhale and shrug, aiming for casual. “Just didn’t want to get another lecture.”

He blinks slowly. When he speaks, his voice is edged with dry disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

And just like that, my softness toward him evaporates.

Great. Here we go.

“Well?” I tilt my head defiantly. “Was it not?”

He drags a hand over his mouth like he’s physically biting back a reaction. “Jesus Christ, Maxwell. You really didn’t hear a fucking word I said, did you?”

“Oh, I heard you just fine. Loud and clear,” I snap. Heat flares in my chest. His condescension is gasoline.

He scoffs. “No, you didn’t. Or you wouldn’t be standing here like a goddamn teenager pissed she got grounded.”

I laugh—a bitter, disbelieving sound. “Wow.”

“It wasn’t a scolding, Maxwell.”

“That’s exactly what it was!”

“Bull shit, ” he snaps, his tone sharp enough to make me flinch. I’ve never heard him this raw. “It was a reality check. Me trying to get you to fucking think before you act.”

Every. Time . We can’t have a single conversation without it blowing up. I should back down, diffuse this situation, and head back to the garage. That would be smart.

But I can’t. God help me, I can’t stop myself.

“How I act isn’t any of your business!” I fire back, too loud, too harsh—and he slams his hand against the truck. The metallic boom reverberates between us.

“Like fuck it isn’t!” He jabs a finger toward me, sharp and accusatory. “You fucked Damian in the garage, Maxwell.”

I jerk back like I’ve been slapped. “I know what I did.”

“Yeah. And you just don’t fucking care.”

“We’re adults! We consented. But you and Wyatt go around acting like you’re the only adults here. Like the two dads. You talk about community, but then try to police the rest of us like we’re kids.”

“It’s not about policing,” he growls. “It’s a business— Wyatt’s business. This is about respect. About not acting like fucking children. About being treated like adults when you actually act like them.”

“Right. And dragging me up to your house like I’m being called into the fucking principal’s office is the grown-up way to handle it?”

“It was clearly a conversation that needed to happen.”

I shake my head. “No, it was a performance. You playing judge and executioner, showing me exactly who holds the power. Don’t pretend that was just about the business. That was about you .”

His eyes narrow, voice dropping low. “You think I’m the only one who had a problem with it? How do you think it made Wyatt feel, walking in on you getting fucked on his shop floor?”

The words hit like a gut punch. Thinking about how it made Wyatt feel is at the very top of my do not engage list.

The truth is, that’s what embarrasses me most—that he saw me like that.

I snap, “The garage was empty. No customers, no one came in. It’s not like—” I flounder, and he steps in, derisive.

“Not like anyone was supposed to walk in and see you bent over the goddamn workbench?”

My breath hitches. My cheeks go hot. He has so many details.

“Oh, so all the heat’s on me, huh?” I spit. “Damian was there too. Did you catch that part? Or are you only keeping tabs on what I do?”

His arms cross tight over his chest. “Damian’s not the one turning it into a pattern, Maxwell.”

I freeze.

There it is.

This isn’t just about the garage. It’s about Damian. It’s about Jake. And it’s about me choosing both of them.

Not the act. Not any sense of professionalism. It’s the fact that I made a choice—two of them—and he doesn’t like it.

My hands curl into fists. “You don’t get to judge me.”

His head tilts slightly. Eyes razor-sharp. Mouth pressed into a humorless line.

“No? You’re fucking Damian. You’re fucking Jake. Hell, for all I know, you’re fucking Wyatt too. From where I’m standing, it looks like you don’t give a damn who you spread your legs for.”

A bitter, metallic taste floods my mouth, and I see red.

“You think I’m just going to stand here and take that?” I snarl. “Take you standing there, acting like my life is some kind of fucking spectacle? Like you get to weigh in on what I do and who I do it with?”

His eyes flash. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

“Yeah? Well, you’re an asshole.”

And then—I push him.

It’s instinct. Old muscle memory from foster care—go big before someone else does. Come out hard so they don’t get the chance to hurt you. I shove both hands into his chest, and he doesn’t even budge. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, solid as a fucking building.

My chest heaves, my pulse hammers in my ears, and he just watches me. Unshaken. Unmoving. Jaw tight.

Fuck this.

I spin on my heel to leave, but I don’t even make it one step. His hand wraps around my arm, yanking me back—hard—and making my breath catch. His grip is solid. I whip around to face him and his dark eyes are pure fire.

“Can you please stop?” he bites out, rough with frustration.

His hand shifts—still gripping, but gentler now.

“Stop running off,” he says, voice low and coiled tight. “Every time it gets uncomfortable, you bolt.”

I falter, startled by the shift. “Maybe because it’s always a goddamn ambush.”

“It’s not supposed to be.” He exhales, hard. “There’s a balance here, Maxwell. We live together. We work together. If you and I can’t get on the same page…” He trails off, still holding my gaze. “It’s not gonna work.”

“So you’re kicking me out,” I say flatly. “Got it.”

He looks surprised. “What?”

I shake my head, trying to pull free. His grip tightens. “You don’t have to spell it out. I’ve seen this play before. Just let me get my shit first.”

“You are fucking exasperating,” he growls. “This is exactly what I just said. Stop trying to bolt.”

“You said it’s not gonna work. What else could that possibly mean?”

“I mean you and me, fighting. Can we find a tentative fucking peace, please?”

“I can’t believe you’re blaming me for this too. You started it!”

“ I started it?” His voice spikes, incredulous. Then he exhales, eyes closing for a second. When he opens them, he lets go of my arm—and, against all reason, I miss the heat of his touch.

“That’s not how I see it,” he says. “Look—” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to talk to you when I’m this fucking wound up. And I always seem to be wound up around you.”

I open my mouth, ready to bite, but he cuts me off.

“It’s not you—” He stops. His jaw clenches. “It is you. But not how you think.”

I stare at him. Heart hammering. “You don’t have to say it, Ryder. I know I don’t fit.”

His brow tics. “That’s not true.”

“You’ve been treating me like a complication since day one.”

“You are,” he says, the words rough. Honest. “You’re a fucking complication. A distraction. A problem I don’t know how to solve.” A pause. “But I don’t want you to leave, okay?”

My jaw tightens. “Well, you have a funny way of showing it. Saying I don’t care who I spread my legs for? Fuck you for that.”

“I believe you said essentially the same thing about me.”

The way he throws it back at me makes my blood flare again. “No— you did. You’re the one who said that about yourself.”

He steps in, hands wrapping around both my arms. Firm. Tight. And suddenly, I’m too aware of how close we are. The heat of him. The gravity.

“Maxwell,” he rasps. Then, gentler, “Max. Slow down. Let’s…just start over.”

“You owe me an apology.”

“You’re right.” A beat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I was pissed. Doesn’t make it okay.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

He exhales—long and strained. Closes his eyes. “Okay. Okay.” And then he looks at me. Really looks. “I don’t get a say in who you’re with. I know that.” His voice drops lower. “But I don’t want you to leave.”

My head lifts. We just…stare.

Then: “Maybe I’m just jealous,” he says, voice thick.

The words slam into me like a hurricane.

The air disappears. No more cicadas. No sun on my skin. The world drops away.

All I can feel is the rise and fall of his chest. All I can hear is my own heartbeat.

The tension crackles. I feel it.

Did he just say that?

My lips part, but I can’t speak.

His eyes flicker over my face—my mouth, my throat, my mouth again—and when they lift to meet mine, something breaks open between us.

Heat.

Need.

The kind of pull that unravels reason.

His grip tightens for just a second like he might actually pull me in—

But he speaks instead, low and raw. “Jake and Damian are my brothers.”

That word, brothers, drops between us. I’m standing here, wrecked by the pull between us, and it can’t go anywhere. I’ve made my choice. And Jake and Damian are family to him.

I don’t know what to say. I just hold his gaze—unblinking, my chest rising and falling with my breath—and then he exhales like something inside him is caving in. His shoulders drop the slightest bit, and he steps in closer, eyes locked on mine.

“If you were mine,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with heat, “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you.”

And then he lets go. Steps back. Moves away.

One step. Another.

He flips the tailgate up. Takes the long way around the truck while I stand there, frozen.

“Tell Damian he could’ve just asked me to drive the damn transmission down,” he says from the porch, his lip curling in a faint smile—but his eyes don’t match it. There’s something heavy in them.

And then he turns and walks back inside.

Leaving me reeling.