Page 35 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

RYDER SLAMS THE truck door behind him and peels off with a shriek of tires. Then—silence.

Except for the low rumble of the engine. The jolt of the road. The bike thudding in the truck bed behind us. Except for the pounding sound of my pulse in my ears.

I sit stiffly in the passenger seat, hands limp in my lap, my whole body humming with aftershocks I haven’t started to process.

Ryder stares dead ahead, both hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles, his jaw locked tight.

I fix my eyes on the windshield and focus on my breathing like it needs conscious attention—like if I stop, I won’t start again.

Pain registers in pieces. My shoulder aches. My palms sting, the skin torn open. My head throbs where it hit the pavement.

There’s blood on my legs and hands, and it’s not just mine.

But shock clouds everything. My mind is full of static, white noise pressing in around the edges. I feel soft, slippery, not entirely in my body.

Ryder is the opposite—taut and coiled, crackling with seething tension, like he’s holding his rage together with threadbare stitches.

His violence echoes in my head. The way that man screamed. The sound his arm made when it snapped. The blood on Ryder’s hands.

It’s all jumbled, fractured, pieces of something I can’t hold together.

The way Ryder moved. The speed and devastation. Like a lethal weapon unleashed.

I don’t even know if those men will live. If they’re still breathing. If they’re bleeding out in that alley.

And I don’t even know if I care.

They were going to take me, and he tore them apart to stop it.

I’m not sure what scares me more—that I saw what he’s capable of…or that it means so much to me.

The truck jerks to a stop in front of the house, and for a long moment, neither of us moves.

Then Ryder throws his door open. A second later, mine clicks open too—and his hand is there. I take it without thinking, my fingers curling around his like it's the only thing holding me upright. He helps me down, silent and strong, unlocks the front door and holds it open for me.

I walk inside and pause, feeling the cool air brush over my skin.

Ryder walks to the first-floor bathroom and nudges the door open, pulls a towel down from the shelf and hands it to me.

“Here.”

I take it and stand there, empty and numb, as he turns and disappears up the stairs.

A second later, the pipes creak. The shower kicks on above me. I step into the bathroom, close the door, and strip off my clothes with shaking hands.

The light overhead is too bright. I turn the water on without thinking. Step in before it’s warm.

The spray hits me like shattered glass, and I flinch, but I don’t move.

I just stand there. Wrap my arms around myself, bow my head. The water slides down my skin, carrying blood and dirt and pieces of the night with it.

The water warms up, bringing relief, and I don’t know how long I stand there for.

Eventually, I shut off the tap. Dry off. Wrap myself in the towel that smells like Ryder’s laundry soap. Slightly more normal on the outside, but my legs feel boneless. My heart won’t slow down.

I step out into the hallway and see a warm light glowing from the kitchen.

Ryder stands at the counter, bare-chested, damp hair curling around his shoulders. A bottle of whiskey sits open in front of him along with two empty glasses.

He looks up and his eyes rake over me—towel clutched to my chest, wet hair dripping over my shoulders, finger-shaped bruises already forming on my arms—and something dark flickers in his expression.

I walk in slowly, and sit down at the table without a word.

He places the whiskey and the glasses on the table and then takes a seat, pouring two fingers into each glass and pushing one toward me.

I pick it up and knock it back in one swallow. The burn hits hard—fiery down my throat and pooling in my chest.

Ryder lifts his glass. The tattoos at his throat shift when he swallows. My eyes drop to the hand resting on the table. The blood’s gone now—but the ink stays. A wolf, inked in black and gray, covers the back of his hand. Hyper-realistic. Its eyes look straight into mine and I stare back.

The whiskey spreads through my veins, loosening the knot in my chest. Breathing comes more easily. Ryder refills both of our glasses, and I reach for mine, knocking it back again like it might chase everything away.

Still, neither of us speaks.

The silence between us feels thick, like the air before a storm.

My pulse has started to settle, but my mind won’t stop. Flashes come unbidden—Scar’s hand on my mouth. The alley. My head slamming into pavement. The metallic taste of blood.

I swallow. Blink. Try to breathe.

A tremble starts in my hand, spreading up my arms and across my shoulders. And then something inside me cracks.

It doesn't start as a sob. Just a sound. A breath that catches and doesn't let go…

The tears hit like a tsunami. Huge, messy, and sudden.

I press my palm to my mouth, trying to stifle it, but my whole body shudders.

One second I’m holding myself together. The next, I’m not.

The sob that rips out of me is ugly and loud.

I double forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, hands over my face like I can hold the grief in, but it doesn’t work.

It keeps coming—sharp, gasping, ragged—wracked with sobs that go deeper than just tonight.

It’s not just the bikers. It’s the weight of it all.

The running. The hiding. The bounty. The years of looking over my shoulder.

And Ryder is there almost instantaneously.

He kneels in front of me, wraps his arms around my shaking body. One hand curls around the back of my neck, the other in my hair, grounding me. I pitch forward, collapsing into him, and he catches me before I can fall.

My momentum carries us both down. He sinks to the floor with me, back against the wall, pulling me into his lap, tucking my head under his chin.

I cry until I can't breathe, until there’s nothing left.

Until the grief burns itself out. The tears don’t stop so much as soften, like waves rippling out from a storm, leaving emptiness in their wake.

I let him rock me, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek as everything in me releases, lets go, and gets washed away.

He smells like pine and warmth. Like the forest at night. I breathe it in deep, letting the scent soothe all my raw, jagged edges until a strange, empty calm comes over me.

At first I don’t notice how close we are, only that my cheek pressed into the crook of his neck is comfort.

It happens gradually.

The rocking slows, then stops. His hand moves in my hair, his thumb tracing lazy strokes along my scalp.

I exhale, long and low.

And then it starts. A tug deep in my belly. A flicker of awareness under my skin.

A stillness settles between us, electric and suspended, and I feel a change in his breathing. The way his thumb pauses, just for a second.

I become aware that I’m sitting in his lap. That he’s shirtless—hot skin against mine, muscles solid beneath my hands, his breath brushing the top of my head.

And me…I’m basically naked.

Just a towel, damp and loose. My body pressed to his—it hasn’t even registered until now. My thighs bare across his jeans. The curve of my hip flush against his abdomen.

We’re skin to skin. And as the realization steals my breath, his hand slips from my hair to the nape of my neck, tracing down the line of my spine, sparking electric currents over my skin in its wake.

Something urgent awakens in me.

A rising response in my body, a need. A hunger. Pressed against him like this, I can feel the ache bloom, wide and desperate.

I tilt my face upward, my lips brushing against his neck, my nose brushing against his jaw, and he exhales a rough breath.

One of his hands slides down to grip the curve of my thigh, and I shift instinctively, swinging my leg over his lap until I’m straddling him, and pressing the front of my body against his, wrapping my arms around the unholy breadth of his shoulders, pressing myself tight against him.

His mouth finds the side of my throat, his lips brushing my skin, and I suck in a shuddering breath as every nerve awakens at once. His teeth graze the skin beneath my ear, then bite—just enough to make my hips jolt. Heat floods between my legs, sudden and slick.

His hands roam lower, gripping my ass, rough on bare skin, the towel bunched at my waist. He hauls me against him like he needs me as close as I need him, and I feel the thick ridge of his cock beneath me, straining through denim.

It makes me ache. Makes me throb. Makes me want to tear his clothes off with my teeth.

I lift my eyes to his and see my own intensity reflected back at me. Pupils blown, lips parted, raw need emanating off of him. And then he crashes his mouth against mine.

His kiss is powerful, desperate, and I meet him right there, gasping into his mouth, fingers running up into his hair, grinding down against him.

With one hand, he rips the towel away and flings it aside. I reach between us, fumbling with his zipper with shaking fingers, while he leans back and lets me do it, chest heaving.

I push his jeans down just enough, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, fucking beautiful.

I stare for a second—shocked by how much I want it. How much I want him.

Need him.

I suck in a breath, and then he’s pulling me back against him, mouth finding mine again with rough urgency, skin on skin, the head of his cock sliding against the slick heat between my legs.

I reach down and guide him to me, and then I slide down the huge girth of him, slow and tight and aching. So deep it feels like he’s breaking me open.

A sound tears out of his throat as he fills me completely. His fingers dig into my hips. He grits his teeth and rolls his head back as I move on top of him—a slow, grinding rhythm that he rises into, every stroke building pressure behind my clit, a slow, merciless push toward the edge.