Page 38 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE RAIN DOESN’T let up all day. Thick, gray sheets hammer the roof and soak the gravel outside, turning the driveway into a shallow river.

Inside, the kitchen is buzzing with activity.

The smell of garlic and rosemary hangs to the air and soft music hums from the living room speakers.

Jake is chopping vegetables while Ryder brings a selection of wine bottles up from the basement cellar.

Damian’s out back under a tarp, hoodie pulled up, barbecuing in the rain.

I hear the low rumble of Wyatt’s bike and jump from my seat, running barefoot to the front door and throwing it open. My heart is hammering as I step out into the storm. The porch steps are slick beneath my feet, the gravel cold and gritty, but I don’t stop until he’s right in front of me.

Wyatt pulls off his helmet, rain sliding down the shoulders of his black leather jacket. His hair is getting long, it falls in front of his eyes and he has to sweep it back. The moment I see him, I can breathe again.

I wrap my arms around his soaked jacket and press my face to his chest.

“You’re here,” I breathe, my voice catching.

He’s solid and warm. Smelling like wet leather and home.

He glances down at me, blue eyes crinkling with quiet amusement. “You’re gonna catch cold out here with no shoes on.”

I pull back, grinning. “That’s classic Old Man Wyatt right there.” Then my eyes catch sight of his bike behind him. Fully loaded. Saddlebags strapped tight. Rain glinting off the buckles.

Wyatt’s heading out again.

I try to tamp down my disappointment.

“You brought my stuff?”

He nods, shifting a duffel bag off his shoulder and handing it to me.

“I missed you,” I blurt out, taking the bag from his hand.

His gaze softens. “Missed you too, kid.”

I give him a crooked smile and turn back to the house to get dressed. Everything’s still wrong, but seeing him like this, rain-slicked and unshakable, makes it feel a little less like the world’s ending.

By the time I’m in my own clothes again—clean jeans and a soft white camisole—I’m already feeling more grounded. Like I’ve crawled back into my skin.

Wyatt’s at the kitchen table, half-turned in his chair like he’s been waiting for me. When he sees me, he stands, crossing toward me with a deep furrow between his brows.

“Jesus, Max.” His hands land on my shoulders, firm and warm, as his eyes scan my face. “Are you all right?”

I nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Why did you go into town by yourself?”

My eyes flick toward the counter, where Ryder’s leaning back with his arms crossed. His expression is unreadable—closed off, but watching.

“I wanted to get some answers,” I tell Wyatt. “It wasn’t smart, I know.”

“Max.” He exhales, shakes his head. “You can’t do that. You have to be careful.”

“I know.” I can’t keep the plaintiveness out of my voice. “I went to the garage first. But you weren’t there.”

He frowns, looking worried, and drops his arms.

“We need to get you a phone,” he says, not for the first time. “This is ridiculous. It’s not safe.”

It’s not that there’s a reason I don’t have a phone—I just have never had one. And living here I never seem to need one. But Wyatt’s been needling me about it for a while.

“We’ll get one this week,” Ryder says, the words landing with a surprising warmth.

The words are the first indication I’ve had all day that there’s some ground beneath my feet here. A future. That even though he won’t look me in the eye, he’s still expecting me to be here.

“If Ryder wasn’t on surveillance—” Wyatt starts, shaking his head.

I lay a hand on his arm to interrupt him. “I’m okay.”

We stand there for a moment in that space between scolding and care, and I realize that I’m on the verge of tears. Not because of the memory of yesterday, but because of the prospect of tomorrow without Wyatt here to worry about me.

He studies me, then nods. “You gotta listen to Ryder, okay?”

A slow burn rises up my cheeks, but I keep my voice steady, my eyes locked on Wyatt. “I will.”

Ryder turns toward the counter, silent, reaching for the corkscrew.

The sound of a cork pulling free from a bottle breaks the moment, and he pours wine into two glasses with a glug. He hands them both to us.

“It’s a 2008 Bordeaux,” he says.

Wyatt takes a glass and tips it toward him in a lazy salute.

“Let’s go talk outside,” he says to me, cocking his head toward the doorway.

I take the second glass from Ryder, barely meeting his eyes, and follow Wyatt out into the rain.

Out on the porch, the rain clatters against the roof in a steady rhythm. The sounds from inside bleed through the door behind us, but out here, it’s just us and the storm.

Wyatt settles onto the weather-worn rattan couch, wine glass balanced loosely in one hand. I sink down beside him, tucking my bare feet up under me.

He takes a slow sip before speaking. “I want to let you know that I’m heading out tomorrow.”

I nod, pressing my lips together, but I can’t hide my disappointment. Used to be that I saw Wyatt every day. Now it’s been months since we had more than a few days together.

“How long this time?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not sure yet.”

Wyatt’s been gone for three or four weeks at a time lately. I can’t imagine how long not sure means, if this is the first time it warrants a proper goodbye.

“Why won’t anyone just tell me what’s going on?” I say. “Where do you go? And why? It feels like the floor’s falling out from under me and no one wants to say why.”

He exhales, rubbing his palm over the knee of his jeans. “There’s not much to tell.”

“That’s bullshit,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.

He doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze.

“It’s just what we do,” he says finally. “Some of it matters. Some of it doesn’t. Either way, we don’t make a habit of explaining it.”

I stare at him. “Is it dangerous?”

A pause. Then, “Sometimes.”

“Is it illegal?”

He huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

That makes my stomach twist.

“I would,” I say.

He lifts his glass and takes another slow sip before raising his eyes to me.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Max.”

I shake my head. “You just got back. And now you’re leaving again. Everything’s fucked and you’re just...gone.”

“You’re not alone,” he says, quietly.

“That’s how I’m going to feel without you.”

His eyes are blue and clear and impossibly patient. “You’re not being abandoned, Max. You’re safe here. You’ve got a place. That doesn’t change just because I’m not walking in and out of the garage every day.”

“But it does change,” I say quietly. “Ryder doesn’t want me here anymore. And I…can’t go to Jake and Damian’s.”

He leans back a little, watching me. Like he’s letting the silence pull the truth to the surface.

Then, softly, “What’s going on between you and Ryder?”

My throat tightens.

“What do you mean?” I try.

He doesn’t press. Just tips his head, studying me the way he does when a car won’t start and he already knows why.

“Something shifted,” he says. “I can’t put my finger on it, but…it’s there.”

I glance away. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.”

I exhale through my nose, barely a sound. My fingers tighten around the wine glass, and I feel the heat rising in my face before I can stop it.

He just waits.

The silence stretches, and finally, I murmur, “We crossed a line.”

Wyatt nods, like that’s what he figured.

He waits a beat, then asks, “Did it mean something to you?”

My throat goes tight. I nod.

He studies me a second longer, like he’s weighing how deep the hurt goes.

“You care about him.”

It’s not a question. Just a truth laid down between us.

I frown, consider denying it, and then nod, slow and ashamed.

“Yeah…I guess so.”

“I figured.”

When I speak again, my voice is a whisper. “I don’t know if he cares back.”

I blink hard, trying to keep my voice steady.

“He told me it was a mistake. He’s acting like he wishes it had never happened.”

Wyatt looks out toward the rain, jaw set, thoughtful.

“I’ve known Ryder a long time,” he says. “Watched him walk away from a lot of things that could’ve meant something, just so he wouldn’t have to feel it.”

He pauses, like he’s weighing how much to say.

“Ryder doesn’t do anything halfway. Not when it matters. If he lets himself care—it’s not light. It’s not easy. It’s all the way down to the bone.”

He shrugs, and glances at me. “If he didn’t care, he’d be calm. Smooth. Same as always. But when he’s uptight as hell walking around like someone just kicked his dog?” A hint of a smile. “Yeah. That’s when you know it matters.”

The words catch me off guard. So simple, but they hit something deep. I stare out into the rain, letting it echo in the silence between us. Letting his words settle.

If he didn’t care...

My heart twists.

If Wyatt’s right—if Ryder does care—then that means what happened between us wasn’t one-sided. It wasn’t just a moment of weakness I misread.

That means the way he touched me meant something. That the way I felt with him—wanted and seen—was real.

It should feel like relief. But it doesn’t. Because underneath that flicker of hope is the weight of everything else.

Jake. Damian. The way I can’t look at them without guilt curling in my gut.

I care about them too. So deeply it aches. And now…I don’t know where I stand with any of them.

Maybe I never had a chance of keeping this whole thing from falling apart. Maybe I’m the one who pulled the thread that’s unraveling everything.

My chest tightens, the ache turning sharp.

“I think I broke something,” I whisper. “With all of them.”

“You didn’t,” he says gently. “Everything will turn out fine, you’ll see.”

He waits a second, then reaches out and covers my hand with his.

“You’re tougher than you think, kid,” he says. “You walked from God-knows-where, half-dead, through the night, just to get yourself here. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

He opens his arms, and I don’t hesitate.