Page 3 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE DAY PASSES quickly, even though there’s little to do.

I sit behind the computer, ready to ring up purchases under Wyatt’s supervision whenever a customer comes in.

Through the frosted glass door dividing the shop from the service bay, I hear Damian working, the near-constant mechanical whirring a reminder that he’s still there.

Wyatt moves between the two rooms, checking on both of us.

He makes me several cups of tea—extra milky and sweet, just how I like it—and over the slow afternoon, I learn more about all four of them.

Wyatt tells me that they were in the army together. “Special ops,” is all he says.

I know enough to know that special operations is a lot different than being a soldier. That, and his unwillingness to share anything else, piques my interest.

He tells me that after they got out, Ryder bought a large plot of land and owns everything from here to the house. All four men live on Ryder’s land, which, Wyatt says, just felt natural to them after everything they’d been through together in combat.

“We’re closer than brothers,” he tells me. “Been to hell and back together.”

Damian and Jake are building a second house behind Ryder’s place, where they’ll live once it’s finished. Wyatt lives here, above the garage.

He tells me that leatherneck is a slang term for a Marine—which he used to be—and before that, he was a mechanical engineer. He’s always loved cars and bikes, so when they left the military, he started the garage and hired Damian.

My ears perk up when he tells me he loves motorcycles.

I spotted a Harley in a corner of the garage when he gave me a tour, and the sight is both familiar and discomforting.

I’ve been around motorcycles constantly for so long now that not being around them is a noticeable absence—like the silence in Ryder’s house last night when I was trying to sleep.

In forty-eight hours, my life has changed completely.

Two days ago, I was O.D. blue blood—girlfriend of the leader of a rapidly expanding outlaw motorcycle club built on drugs, intimidation, and fear.

A week ago I’d never have believed I could survive without Billy.

And now, no matter what happens, I know the future is going to look completely different than I ever imagined.

By the time the shop closes at five, it’s already dark outside. We haven’t had a customer in hours. Wyatt flips the lock on the front door, and a moment later, Damian pushes through the frosted glass, wiping his hands on a rag.

“You want a beer?” Wyatt asks me, heading into the staff area and tugging open the fridge.

“Sure,” I say, following them into the back. I take the bottle he hands me and sink onto the couch. He doesn’t offer one to Damian, I notice. Damian grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with water, then he settles beside me.

“So when are we gonna find out more about you, Max?” he asks. He turns to Wyatt. “You learn anything today?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I had.” Wyatt winks at me. “Why don’t you start by asking how her day was?”

“Hey.” Damian leans back, shrugs. “I’m just curious about where the magical girl originated from. Pretty normal, under the circumstances, I should think.”

Wyatt shoots him a look. “Leave her be, D. She’ll talk when she’s ready.”

“You know Ryder’s just gonna ask her the same thing when we get there,” he retorts.

My thumb finds the edge of the label on my bottle, and I start picking at it.

“Then let him ask. She doesn’t need to answer the same damn questions twice.” Wyatt turns to me, his blue eyes crinkling with kindness. “Ignore him, sweetheart. Damian is a jackass by nature. He doesn’t know any better.”

He drops into the chair across from us, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks me in the eye.

“Just know that you’re welcome here, okay?”

I glance up, surprised by the softness in his voice. Then I take a sip to swallow my smile.

As predicted, Ryder’s sharp brown eyes slide to me as we sit down to eat a few hours later at the house.

“So what’s the story, Maxwell? How did you end up on our porch in the middle of nowhere?”

This time, Wyatt doesn’t interrupt. They’re all waiting—Jake, Damian, Ryder, and him—to hear my answer.

I’m a little loose from the two beers we had at the garage before heading over—Wyatt on his motorcycle, me in the cab of Damian’s truck.

He barely said a word on the short drive, except a suggestive comment about how Jake would be happy to see me.

Looking at Jake now, offering me a small, reassuring smile, I think I’m happy to see him, too.

Even though I’ve gotten to know Wyatt and Damian better today, Jake still feels like my first friend here.

His smile makes this moment feel easier.

Still, I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to tell them—it’s just that I don’t know where to start. How do I explain why I had to run without unraveling the whole complicated mess with Billy?

“I, uh…I guess I was slipped something in my drink.” I focus on the key details. “My…boyfriend—or, ex-boyfriend, I guess—”

Why do I glance at Jake when I say that?

“He slipped something into my drink. Left me with someone else. But I ran. I ran until I saw your porch, and then I just couldn’t fight whatever was in that drink anymore.”

I look around the table, gauging reactions. Damian’s expression doesn’t change, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. Wyatt and Jake frown. But Ryder—

Ryder just watches me.

His stare is heavy and unsettling. The flash of anger in his dark eyes is sharp enough to make my stomach flip. His jaw clenches. His grip tightens around his beer bottle until his knuckles turn white.

I clear my throat. “It’s fucked-up, I know. I can’t go back. So that’s why I’m so grateful—for the job, for letting me crash here. Thank you.”

My throat feels thick. I blink, but no tears come. I never cry. I learned a long time ago that crying doesn’t do any good.

The silence stretches. A pin dropping would make a sound.

Then Ryder speaks.

“You’re safe with us.” His voice is low, controlled, like he’s reining something in. His grip tightens again, like he’s strangling the urge to act, then slowly loosens—deliberate and restrained. “Stay as long as you need.”

“Hear, hear,” says Wyatt, stretching an arm behind Damian to squeeze my shoulder.

Jake exhales sharply. “That’s fucked up.”

Ryder’s eyes flick to him. “Drop it,” he says. “Let’s talk about something else.”

But as the conversation shifts, I still feel Ryder’s eyes on me. Watching. Thinking. Like he’s trying to figure me out.

I flash him a grateful smile, and he gives me a small nod, barely there. Enough to make my chest loosen.

After a while, Damian collects the empty plates, and Ryder lifts his chin toward Wyatt.

“Need to talk to you,” he says.

Wyatt stands, and the two men leave the room, leaving me at the table with Jake and Damian.

“Okay, you wash up,” Jake says to Damian, pushing his chair back. “Max and I will dry.”

“I washed up last time,” complains Damian.

“Fuck off,” says Jake with a laugh, pushing his shoulder as they make their way to the kitchen.

I shuffle in behind them in my oversized socks. Damian starts the hot water and Jake hands me a dish towel. It’s immediately comfortable standing between the two men. They tower over me by at least a foot, and in my oversized coveralls, I feel like a kid tucked between big brothers.

We settle into an easy rhythm. Jake passes dishes, I dry, and Damian teases us both. It reminds me of the early days with Billy.

I was thirteen when I landed in that house—old enough to know how bad it was. We were both foster kids there, crammed in with five others. Dan, the foster dad, drank and raged, and everyone whispered about the nights he tried to open kids’ doors.

Billy protected me. Four years older, he slept on my bedroom floor when Dan was drunk. When he aged out, I stayed behind, trying to stay small and not get noticed. But the night Dan cracked my door open, I ran—straight to Billy.

By then he’d been out for a while, living with a few guys in a run-down apartment across town, but he talked his roommates into letting me stay.

The place was already packed—couches taken, floors full—so it made sense that I share his bed.

It was loud and chaotic, and always short on groceries, but it was more of a family than most of us had ever had.

Standing here now, tucked between Jake and Damian, I feel a flicker of that again. The same comfort. The same ease.

When the dishes are done, we drift to the living room. Jake turns on the TV, and I sink into the couch while he and Damian settle in. For the first time in two days, I’m warm, fed, and feeling something close to safe.

I could get used to this. Could be content night after night here, washing dishes and laughing, collapsing in front of the TV.

But I know better. While Jake and Damian kick back with the quiet confidence of men who belong here, I have to remember that I’m just the stray who showed up on their doorstep.

That I have a future to figure out still. Next steps.

Where I’m going is uncertain, but for now I just try to enjoy not running.

I barely notice when Wyatt comes back into the room, until his presence shifts the air. That tiny ripple of awareness that snaps me back into myself.

Somehow, I’m leaning against Jake’s knee. His arm is brushing mine.

“Ready to go, kid?” Wyatt asks.

His smile is easy, but I see his eyes flick to where Jake’s knee is tucked under my elbow before lifting back to mine.

I sit up abruptly. “Yes—”

I almost say sir . The old habit nearly slips out, a ghost of another life pressing against the back of my throat. Dan made us call him that.

I blink, swallow it down, and hop off the couch.

Jake tosses me a lazy wave. Damian leans back, hazel eyes holding mine for half a second longer than they should. I follow Wyatt to the door, pull on Ryder’s oversized parka, and accept the helmet he holds out.

“Been on a bike before?”

“Yes, sir.”

This time, it slips out before I can stop it.

Outside, the cold slices straight through Ryder’s coat. I climb onto the back of the bike and wrap my arms around Wyatt’s waist. Even through his leather jacket his body is solid—all muscle—and his heat is a comforting contrast to the freezing night air.

When he revs the engine, the growl of the machine fills the silence, drowning out the empty fields stretching into the dark.

The ride back is fast. We bounce over the dirt track, the rush of air biting at my ears and hands.

I love this feeling. How your body folds into the motion, how the speed drowns out every thought.

I’ve spent years on the back of bikes, and I know how to grip tight and lean into the turns.

The engine vibrates through my legs, the wind whipping the ends of my hair, and I tuck in closer, matching his rhythm without thinking, letting myself enjoy the brief sensation of flying.

When we reach the garage, it feels different in the dark. The utter silence all around highlights how isolated the building is—just open fields and an empty highway.

We enter through the side door into a narrow foyer. A staircase rises to the right, and directly ahead, another door leads into the ground floor. Wyatt opens it and flicks on the overhead light. The brightness is jarring after the darkness outside.

He walks me down the hallway to the door of the storage room.

“Get some sleep, kid,” he says, flicking on the light inside. “I’m upstairs if you need me.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “Good night.”

He lingers for a beat, like he’s about to say something else, then just nods and heads back the way we came.

A second later, the hallway light snaps off, and the click of the door echoes in the empty space.

I’m alone. The silence presses in. No loud voices. No music shaking the floor. No engines revving or backfiring.

It’s not much of a bedroom—a mattress on crates surrounded by shelves of engine lubricant and window washer fluid—but it’s the first room of my own I’ve ever had.

I pull the blanket around my shoulders and let my body sink into the quiet. I wonder what Billy’s doing right now. If he’s pissed I left. Or indifferent. If life just goes on in the clubhouse the same as ever without me.

But I don’t wonder long. Sleep drags at me, heavy and sudden. For tonight, the quiet here means I’m safe. Tomorrow, I’ll remember that quiet never lasts.