Page 34 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

They walk slowly toward the bar, scanning the room. My eyes track their movements in the mirror behind the shelves. One of them glances my way and stops.

Shit.

I slide off the stool, moving slow. Like maybe I’m just heading to the bathroom. Like I’m not about to bolt. Like my legs aren’t made of sand.

“Miss?” one of them says behind me. Voice too calm. Too pleasant.

I keep walking.

“Hey,” the other adds. “We need a word.”

I reach the back hallway. Eyes on the door.

“We need you to come with us.”

My heart thunders. I shove through the back door into the warm night, my eyes darting down the alleyway, searching for anyone—anything—but it’s empty.

Then the door creaks again.

They’re right behind me.

I spin around.

The big one steps out first, blocking the way to the street—broad as a wall, braided beard swinging, mirrored sunglasses still in place.

The other—leaner, quicker, with close-cropped hair and a long, pale scar splitting one eyebrow—cuts off my retreat toward the back lot.

“Easy,” the bigger one says. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

“We just need you to come with us,” Scar adds.

“Fuck off.”

I try to dart between them, but Scar intercepts me. His hand grazes my wrist and I rip it away.

He grabs harder.

“Don’t make this messy,” he says. “Easier for everyone if you do it quiet.”

I wrench my arm, but his fingers dig in.

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” I shout.

I kick out, catching his shin. He hisses and lets go.

But before I can move, the big one’s behind me, arms like steel cables wrapping around my ribs, pinning mine in tight. I scream, but his hand clamps over my mouth fast, silencing it.

I bare my teeth and bite down—hard.

“Fuck’s sake!” he snarls, yanking his hand back. “She bit me.”

Scar grins, slow and sick. “Knew she’d be fun.”

I buck against the one holding me—wild and useless. I can’t get enough ground.

“Oh, I like that, baby,” Scar breathes. His eyes flash with greed. “I love a fighter.”

He crouches closer. Tattoos spider down the side of his neck—cheap, angry ink that looks like it was done in prison. His breath smells like chewing tobacco.

“Keep your dick in your pants,” the big one growls, hot against my ear. “We’ve got orders.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got time too.” Scar grabs my jaw, rough. “Bet you’re used to being passed around, huh?” he murmurs. “Bet you had half that club on rotation.”

My pulse spikes. I slam my heel down onto the big one’s foot, then whip my head back, cracking it into his chin.

He grunts, stumbles, and I run.

I make it two steps toward the street before Scar grabs my hair and yanks.

Pain sears across my scalp first—then my ass, as I hit the pavement. My palms rip open. My shoulder screams.

And then he’s on me.

Knees braced on either side of my legs. One hand clamped over my mouth again.

“Keep squirming,” he sneers. “It’s more fun that way.”

“Fucking bitch,” growls the big one, rubbing his chin.

I thrash, fighting like hell, every part of me writhing beneath him, but he doesn’t move. He just laughs.

Then he leans down, breath thick and wet against my ear.

“I’m going to enjoy breaking you,” he says. “We’re gonna bring you back in fucking pieces.”

“C’mon,” the other mutters. “Let’s get her in the van.”

This is it.

No one’s coming.

No one knows I’m here.

My whole body is shaking. Heart slamming so hard I can barely breathe.

The sky above is dark and wide, the stars smeared across it my only witnesses. Too far away to do anything.

My vision tunnels.

Scar’s face swims above mine, mouth twisted into a smug, ugly smile—

And then his head snaps sideways.

Spit flies. Blood, too—misting in the air, droplets catching the light of the motion detector above the bar door.

He doesn’t fall. Not right away.

He staggers, blinking, like the world shifted underneath him.

And then drops.

A grunt. The dull crack of bone against pavement.

The weight on my chest disappears.

The big one jerks upright behind me with a roar, his hand flying toward his belt, maybe for a knife or gun—but something hits him before he gets there.

Not a punch.

A wrecking force.

A living weapon.

A body slams into his like a meteor—full speed, zero hesitation—and they crash into the brick wall with a sound like a building coming down.

Boots scrape. Bones jar. Breath is ripped from lungs.

I shove up onto my elbows, dazed, barely breathing, and then I see him.

Ryder charging, the living embodiment of fury. Hair flying like a war banner, eyes unholy with rage.

A Viking. A ghost. A god of war. Every atom of him focused on destruction.

He moves like the laws of nature bend for him. And for a second, I don’t know if I’m breathing.

The alley’s too narrow to hold him. The air is too thin to carry the weight of him.

The big one scrambles to get his knife out and Ryder catches his wrist mid-motion and twists.

Snap.

The scream is sharp and immediate. Then Ryder drives his elbow into the man’s face—once, twice—until he slams backward into the brick wall.

Blood spatters.

Before the man can slide down, Ryder hauls him forward by the collar of his cut and throws him against the wall again. He doesn’t check if he’s breathing. Just lets him fall.

Then he turns.

Scar is on all fours now, trying to crawl away. Ryder moves toward him, lethal and relentless. He kicks him in the ribs, flipping him onto his back, and then dropps over him, one knee on either side, and starts swinging.

One.

Two.

Three.

Bone. Flesh. Pavement.

The sound is nauseating—wet and thick.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Scar’s head bounces with every hit. His arms twitch, but there's no fight left.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ryder’s face is blank now. No fury, no heat. Just cold focus.

An executioner, not a man.

Ten.

Eleven.

“Ryder—” My voice catches. Barely audible.

Twelve.

“Ryder!” I shout, staggering upright, palms raw, legs shaking.

Thirteen.

I lunge and grab his arm—his blood-slicked, iron-hard forearm.

“Ryder. That’s enough.”

He doesn’t move.

The fist is still cocked, trembling in the air.

“You’ll kill him.”

He turns his head, chest heaving, and looks at me as though he doesn’t recognize me.

There’s just blood and breath and the sudden silence between us.

Then the spell breaks.

He lets go.

His fist lowers. His shoulders slump forward like gravity just remembered him.

His breath saws in and out, chest still rising like he’s mid-fight, even though both men are down. One unconscious. The other barely breathing.

“Ryder,” I whisper.

No response.

His jaw is clenched so tight it looks carved from stone. His fist is still curled, twitching, like he’s fighting against himself to keep from swinging.

“Ryder, look at me.”

I reach up and press my palm to his cheek.

His skin is hot, slick with sweat and blood. His eyes are wrecked, burning with violence.

He exhales, just once, and he grabs me.

No words. Just his arms around me, sudden and fierce, one hand cradling the back of my head.

I press my face into his chest and hold on just as tight.

For a moment, the world stops. The blood. The fight. The van. All of it fades.

Just us.

I thought no one would come.

But he did.