Page 29 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE HEAT IS brutal. End-of-June sun baking down on the garage, cicadas screaming in the trees, air thick enough to chew.

I’m in cutoff shorts, a ribbed tank soaked through with sweat, and my beat-up Converse, the laces loose from slipping them on and off all day to cool off my feet.

Even with the bay doors thrown wide open, it’s stifling.

I’m sorting lug nuts by size, an absolutely soul-sucking task, when I hear the low, familiar rumble of Wyatt’s Harley.

It’s been weeks.

I straighten fast, nearly dumping the whole tray, and rush toward the open bay. Gravel crunches as the bike rolls in.

His presence hits me with a full-body ache.

Long legs swinging off the seat, worn jeans clinging to lean muscle, sun-darkened arms streaked with dust. His helmet comes off, and his salt-and-pepper hair falls messily into place.

He tucks the helmet under his arm, walking toward the open bay doors like no time has passed at all.

And his eyes, when they find me, flash that sharp, impossible blue.

He smiles.

I move before I think. Shoes scraping, heart lurching—I cross the lot and wrap my arms around his solid, sweaty, perfect torso.

“Hey,” I say into his chest. “You’re back.”

His arms come around me tight, big hands splayed across my back, rough and steady, and I just breathe, letting relief sink into my bones.

“I missed your grumpy ass,” I murmur, pulling back slightly to look up at him.

“Still haven’t burnt the place down, huh?”

“Only because I keep stopping Damian from lighting matches.”

He huffs out a laugh and I see something in his gaze—something tired, maybe a little haunted—that makes my chest twist. He always looks like this when he comes back. Like part of him is still somewhere else.

“Come on,” I say, tugging him by the wrist. “You look like you need some terrible shop coffee.”

Inside the staff area, the fridge hums in the corner, cicadas drone just beyond the half-open window, and somewhere in the garage, Luis bangs something around, probably working on the Impala again.

I pour Wyatt a mug while he drops into one of the mismatched chairs, exhaling like it’s the first time he’s sat down in days.

His fingers curl around the chipped ceramic, and he brings it to his lips like it’s something sacred. Closes his eyes. Breathes it in.

“Where you been?” I ask lightly, half-smiling at my own stubbornness as I slide into the chair across from him.

I always ask. And like always, he just gives me that wry, bemused look—like I should know better by now.

“Had some business to take care of,” he says, the words as stale as the coffee.

Right. Business.

He glances around the room, like he’s re-learning the space. “So what’d I miss?”

I lean back, stretching my legs under the table until my foot nudges his boot.

“Well…Jake and Damian finally moved into their house. Still needs a bunch of finishing touches, but the walls are up, plumbing works, power’s running.

They got beds in there, and that was enough for them to call it move-in ready. ”

That gets a smile out of him. “Good. They’ve been itching for that place to be done.”

“There’s a party tonight,” I add. “Housewarming-slash-welcome-to-our-unfinished-cave. Will you come? They’ll want you there.”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, of course. Will be nice to see the place.”

I glance over at him. “Good. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

His gaze flicks down—over my bare legs, my tank clinging to damp skin, my untied shoes. For half a second, it almost looks like heat flickering in his eyes.

But then it’s gone. Swallowed up by that unreadable calm mask he always wears.

He nods at my clothes. “That what passes for workwear now?”

I snort. “You disappear for a month and that’s your first critique?”

“Safety first,” he says, deadpan. “And dignity’s a close second.”

By the time we roll up on Wyatt’s bike, the sun’s dipping low, streaking the sky with pink and gold.

The day’s heat is still clinging to everything.

I swing off the back, my legs warm from the ride, the thrum of the engine still buzzing in my bones.

Music’s already spilling out from inside, thumping through the porch steps as we climb them.

A crowd’s gathered out front, red plastic cups in hand, laughter rising in the air like sparks from a bonfire.

Inside, the house is louder—music pulsing, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off raw drywall and unfinished trim. The air smells like fresh paint and sawdust, sharp beneath layers of sweat, cologne, and cheap beer. It’s stripped-down, but solid. A real house. Built by their hands.

People are already crowding the living room—propped against windowsills, slouched on the arms of the couch, gathered around the kitchen island with half-finished drinks. I didn’t expect this many people. I’m surprised they even know this many.

Damian’s behind the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he pours drinks. Jake appears from the crowd, grinning—eyes lit up, dark hair a mess, red cup already in hand.

“Well, look who finally showed,” he says, clapping Wyatt on the back.

Wyatt gives him a warm half-smile. “Wanted to see for myself if this thing was structurally sound.”

Jake laughs and then his gaze lands on me. “You look good, baby.”

My heart does a stupid little skip. “You sound surprised.”

“Definitely not surprised,” he says, eyes running over me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

“Jesus Christ,” Damian mutters, materializing with a drink in each hand. He passes one to Wyatt, the other to me. “Do you two ever get tired of this mating dance?”

Jake winks at me. “Never.”

Damian slings an arm over my shoulder as I take a sip—fruit punch and vodka, dangerously sweet. “You do clean up pretty damn good,” he says, eyes running over me. “Especially for someone who spent the afternoon elbow-deep in bolts.”

I snort. “And hijacking your playlist.”

He grins. “Don’t remind me. You’ve got terrible taste.”

Before I can fire back, a deep voice makes my heart stop.

“Wyatt.”

Ryder steps forward—hair pulled back, beard trimmed, black tee stretched tight across his shoulders. Heavy boots. Heavy presence.

But his eyes are all warmth for Wyatt, laced with familiarity and respect.

“Good to see you, man.”

Wyatt nods once. “You too.”

They clasp forearms, solid and wordless, and then Ryder turns to me.

“Maxwell,” he says, even and unreadable.

“Hey, Ryder,” I say, trying my best to match his cool.

He nods, nothing more, then turns back to Wyatt. Hand on his shoulder, posture easy.

I smile tightly and step aside as someone brushes past us with a drink in hand, yelling something about beer pong.

Jake leans in, voice low and flirty. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Just hot.”

Wyatt and Ryder peel off toward the back deck, pulled into the gravity of the group of older guys out there—scarred and sunburnt and already half-drunk, their laughter punching through the noise of the music.

We head in the opposite direction, deeper into the crush of bodies and noise. As we pass the hallway, I spot Luis near the edge of the living room, talking to a girl with blue hair. He catches my eye, lifts his chin. I wave.

Then Damian tugs me toward the center of the room, where bodies are swaying, grinding to the music.

“You know I love it when we dance together, Finch,” he says with a grin.

I let him pull me in.

His hands land on my waist and we move together, barely on beat, and I don’t care.

The next song starts and Jake cuts in, fingers sliding through mine as he tugs me against him, one hand low on my back.

“Missed you,” he murmurs into my ear. “Been buried in drywall and busted wiring for far too long.”

“I noticed.”

He brushes a kiss along my jaw, and we sway slowly. Damian’s still close, heat pressing in at my back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement—Wyatt and Ryder stepping back through the sliding doors, their silhouettes framed in the warm light spilling from the kitchen. I turn my head just as Ryder’s gaze flicks up.

Our eyes meet briefly, his gaze impassive before he looks away, like he hadn’t been looking at me at all.

But he had.

And even a quick, bland look across a crowded room spikes my heart rate.

Then Jake’s hand slides lower on my back, palm dragging slowly over the curve of my hip—pulling my awareness back to the heat already pressed against me.

Damian’s mouth finds the side of my neck, warm and lingering, his teeth scraping the skin like a dare.

The contact grounds and centers me, the familiar, magnetic tension between us impossible to ignore.

The music swells. Someone shouts for shots in the kitchen. Laughter flares beside me, sharp and sudden like a match being struck.

Jake and Damian tighten in around me—hands gripping my waist, mouths brushing my skin, their bodies a wall of heat. I turn my head without meaning to. Just a flicker of instinct. And I catch Ryder’s eyes again.

His jaw shifts. Barely. Then he says something low to Wyatt, pushes off the wall, and walks out the front door.

No goodbyes.

Just gone.

Jake’s hands drift lower, fingers skimming the waistband of my shorts. Damian’s breath brushes my neck, his palm steady at my hip. I’m caught between them—surrounded, wanted, and safe.

I turn my head toward Jake, searching for something to anchor me. His green eyes are heavy with heat, his smile knowing.

“How much did you miss me?” I ask, my voice soft but edged.

He grins. “The most.”

I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Then let’s go upstairs.”

His eyes flare just slightly. “Yeah?” he says, already leaning in like he’s ready to devour me right here in the middle of the party.

I don’t answer—I don’t have to. He laces his fingers through mine, and Damian’s hand finds my other one without a word. They pull me through the crowd, past bodies and bass and laughter, up the stairs to Jake’s bedroom.