Page 37 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

I WAKE UP alone.

The sheets beside me are cold, the place where Ryder slept empty and undisturbed.

Rain taps the roof in a steady, relentless rhythm—white noise against the quiet.

Outside, water streaks down the windowpane in crooked rivulets. The light is dim and gray, like the world isn’t going to fully wake up today.

My body aches.

Not just one kind of ache. My ribs flare when I breathe too deep. There’s a raw sting on my palms and a dull throb in my shoulder.

Other parts of me hurt in more pleasant ways. A deep, blooming soreness between my thighs. A swollen tenderness to my lips.

The memories come in a warm flood, making me smile. His breath in my hair, the flex of muscle under my touch, the roll of his hips.

The way he moved inside me. The way he came apart.

I’m still smiling as I sit up, stretch, run my fingers through my hair.

My clothing is downstairs. My towel’s probably still on the kitchen floor. I pad across the room naked, my body still humming with the ghost of his touch, and pull a green camo shirt from Ryder’s dresser. It’s soft and oversized, falling to my knees. Smells like him.

In the mirror, I catch myself.

Hair a mess. Skin flushed. Eyes still dark with sleep and sex. There’s a bruise curling around my wrist. An angry scratch slants across my cheek.

But I don’t look broken. Anything but. I look claimed.

I head downstairs barefoot, Ryder’s shirt feeling warm and intimate around me.

He’s standing at the sink in a plain white t-shirt and low-slung grey joggers, barefoot, washing dishes. The fabric clings to his back and shoulders, the ink along his arms stark against the white. His long hair is damp from the shower, pulled back into a rough knot at the base of his neck.

It’s obscene how good he looks. Brutish and domestic. Power and polish.

He doesn’t turn when I enter the kitchen.

The water runs steady. A glass clinks softly. I pad closer and wrap my arms around his waist, press my cheek to his back, just between his shoulder blades, and breathe in his smell with my eyes closed. “There you are,” I murmur.

But he doesn’t melt back against me like I expect. He stiffens, holding wet hands over the sink like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Then he shifts slightly—just enough to ease out of my arms—and I let go.

“Morning,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

The look is a completely different one than he gave me last night. No fire burning inside. A neutral, emotionless glance. The Ryder firmly behind a reinforced steel wall that I’m used to seeing.

My smile flickers, drops.

“There are bagels in the fridge,” he says, reaching for a towel and drying his hands with quiet efficiency.

I blink. “Bagels?”

“Plain and cinnamon raisin.”

He steps around me, opens the fridge, pulls out a bottled water. Doesn’t offer me one. Just cracks the seal and takes a drink, throat working. Then sets it down and moves toward the hall like he’s got somewhere to be.

Something cold slips through my chest.

“Are you…going somewhere?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m reaching for him. But I am.

He glances over his shoulder. “Got some work to do. I’ll be out back.”

“Oh.” I nod slowly, even though it doesn’t make anything clearer. “Okay. I just…I didn’t expect you to act like this.”

He pauses and turns around. There’s something unreadable in his eyes. His expression is tight and shuttered. Restrained.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing happened.”

He pauses and takes a deep breath.

And then when he speaks, he devastates me.

“You put your life in danger. I left two men for dead. We had sex. What do you want me to say?”

I flinch like he hit me.

We had sex. Third on a laundry list of items.

“That’s it?” I whisper, blinking fast. “That’s all you have to say?”

His brow twitches, and I catch a flicker of fire—there and gone—in his eyes.

“What do you want to hear, Maxwell?” he says, voice dangerously low. “You went to the one place we knew was dangerous. Alone. After we found your photo posted on a fucking bounty board. Taken at that bar.”

He shakes his head once, like he's disgusted.

“So yeah,” he adds. “Emotions ran high. Adrenaline. That’s all it was.”

He lowers his eyes and says, quieter, “We got caught up in it. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I laugh.

Not because it’s funny. But because the alternative is screaming.

“Wow,” I say, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Adrenaline? Really?”

He doesn’t answer. His hands brace against the doorframe, and he drops his head just slightly, like he can’t even make the effort to look at me.

“You can lie to yourself if you want, but don’t stand there and tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

“It was a mistake,” he says, low and even.

I stare at him. My chest feels like it’s cracking open. “Fuck you, Ryder. You’re so full of shit.”

He inhales and closes his eyes for a moment, but doesn’t leave.

“You know what?” I push, stepping forward. “Next time you need to blow off steam, you can skip the whole dramatic rescue, okay? Just jerk off and go to bed.”

His head snaps up.

I keep going. Can’t stop. “It’s just sex, right? I forgot that was your whole thing. So you beat up some guys. Got off. What’s next? A protein shake and a nap?”

His jaw is tight. Eyes fixed on a point just past my shoulder. I can practically hear the effort it’s taking him not to react.

I almost think he won’t.

But then—

“Glad you got it all out,” he says icily, and turns toward the dining room.

And that’s when the front door opens.

Heavy boots on hardwood.

Jake’s voice rings out. “Honey! I’m home!”

Ryder stops mid-step. I freeze, heart hammering.

Jake rounds the corner with a smile, Damian right behind him, and pauses. The smile drops just a fraction.

“Hey.”

I try to smile.

Ryder’s shirt is hanging off me. My breathing’s still shallow. Ryder’s standing tense as a wire.

Jake’s eyes move from me to Ryder. Back to me.

“What’s up, guys?” he asks with just a flicker of confusion.

No one answers.

Damian just stares. His gaze slides over me—to the bruise on my wrist, my cheek. No pants.

“Jesus, Max,” says Jake, stepping forward and reaching a hand out to my jaw. “What happened?”

“There was a situation last night,” says Ryder flatly.

Jake turns and looks at him. “What kind of situation?”

“She left the house,” Ryder says. “Went to Dewy’s. Two bikers tried to grab her.”

Jake’s head whips back to me. “What? What the fuck, Max? What the hell were you thinking?”

I open my mouth. Close it. My throat feels tight.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” I say, sounding more plaintive than I mean to. “Everyone was gone. I was here all day alone. You said I needed protection and then everyone left. So I went to Dewy’s to try to see if anyone knew anything.”

Jake reels back slightly, brow furrowed.

“Who tried to grab you?” he asks. “Did you recognize them?”

I shake my head. “No. But they came after I got there, so I think someone at the bar tipped them off.”

Damian steps in, voice sharp. “What did they say?”

I hesitate. Swallow. My palms sting like they’re remembering the pavement.

“They said they had orders. Tried to drag me to a van.”

Jake’s expression darkens instantly. “Fuck. Did they touch you?”

I shudder at the memory of Scar on top of me, unbuckling his belt, but shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“And the men?” Damian asks, voice clipped. “Did they get away?”

Ryder doesn’t blink. “No.”

Jake’s head turns. “Jesus. You found her? How did you even know she was there?”

Ryder exhales. “She tripped the Zone Three motion sensor. I got the alert and saw her heading west.”

Damian finally speaks. Voice low, cutting: “And you didn’t call us?”

Ryder meets his eyes, calm as ice. “Didn’t have time.”

Jake’s thumb brushes against my cheek. I lift my eyes to his. He watches me with deep concern.

“What the fuck, baby?” he says softly.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

Jake’s jaw works. “But you’ve got bruises.”

“She’s fine,” Ryder interjects, with a strange hostility.

There’s a pregnant pause.

Then—

“And what happened after you saved her?” asks Damian.

The look that Ryder gives Damian makes me viscerally uncomfortable, but Damian doesn’t so much as flinch—his hazel eyes are hard as diamonds.

“It’s handled,” Ryder says. The words are low and final. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”

“I’m sure it was,” snorts Damian, dropping an empty duffel bag on the dining room table and brushing past Ryder on his way into the kitchen.

He doesn’t so much as look at me—jaw tight, eyes cold—and the implications of my actions start to sink in. Like a stone dropping through my heart.

Jake is the only one who seems oblivious to the unspoken tension in the room. His hand brushes the small of my back, pulling my attention back to him. It’s warm, familiar, and welcome—and it just compounds my guilt. But for a moment I just let myself be grateful to him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “I’ve missed you.”

He leans in and kisses my cheek. The corner of my mouth.

My heart jumps. I feel the heat of Ryder’s eyes on us.

Jake kisses my lips—just softly, barely there—and I stiffen.

He pulls back, frowning. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just…still out of it from yesterday, I think.”

Ryder speaks from just beyond the doorway, voice eerily calm and even.

“Jake.”

Jake turns, still half-facing me. “Yeah?”

“Did you check the comm units for tracking before you moved them?”

Jake blinks. “Uh, no? I figured Wyatt would handle—”

“He didn’t,” Ryder says flatly. “They pinged during the last sync. You need to wipe and reload.”

A beat.

Jake nods once. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Without missing a beat, he looks back at me.

His eyes sweep down. Bare legs. Bare feet. Oversized camo shirt.

His head tilts and he tugs playfully at the hem of the shirt. “Is this my shirt you’re wearing?”

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Damian pulls a bottle of water out of the fridge and unscrews the cap.

“ That ,” he says matter-of-factly, tipping the bottle at me, “is Ryder’s shirt.”

Jake frowns. Slightly. Thoughtfully.

I clear my throat. “I should get dressed. I don’t have anything here,” I add. “All my stuff’s still at the garage.”

“Wyatt’s coming by with your stuff later,” says Ryder, for once breaking the tension. “I’ll get you something for now.”

He turns and heads for the stairs, and on a whim, I follow him.

At least with Ryder, the lines are already drawn. With Jake and Damian, it’s a minefield.

In the bedroom, Ryder opens a drawer and tosses a folded pair of black drawstring shorts onto the bed.

“That should work,” he says without turning around.

But he doesn’t leave.

He pauses, shoulders rigid, and then finally says:

“I shouldn’t have touched you.”

The words land like a brick. No warmth. No softness. Just flat truth.

He turns, dark eyes devastating.

“I crossed a line,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

And then he’s walking toward the door. Past me. No eye contact.

“I’ll give you a minute.”

He’s gone before I can even decide if I want to stop him.