Page 39 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

I lean into him, wrapping my arms around him, and he pulls me in tight. His hug is warm and solid. No one else hugs me like this. He holds me like I’m worth holding.

We sit like that for a long time, the rain pummeling the roof above us, and the wreckage of everything else just a little easier to breathe through.

By the time Ryder calls everyone to eat, the smell of garlic and fire-grilled meat is practically making me salivate.

Ryder plates the food in the kitchen while the rest of us carry it out to the table.

I slip into a seat beside Wyatt as everyone starts settling in.

Damian takes the chair across from me, and Ryder claims the head of the table across from Wyatt.

Jake drops into the seat beside me, too close, his thigh brushing mine for half a second before I shift just enough to break the contact.

Ryder reaches around the table, refilling glasses, and I try not to look at his broad, strong hand, covered by the wolf tattoo as he pours. Try not to remember that hand around my waist, around my ass, cupping my breast.

I keep my eyes down, because looking at him feels like lighting a match.

Damian—still wearing his hoodie, sleeves shoved back—reaches for the tongs and helps himself to steak, silent and sharp-edged, while Jake grabs two rolls like he’s stocking up for winter, and starts talking about how grilling in the rain is an underrated act of heroism.

“I’ve seen actual combat with less smoke,” he says to Damian. “That was carnage out there, man.”

“Don’t blame the fire,” Damian tosses back. “Blame the steak that wanted to die raw.”

Wyatt snorts under his breath. “Y’all get dramatic over dinner, I swear.”

Ryder lifts his glass.

“To Wyatt,” he says. “Come back in one piece.”

Wyatt nods, lifting his own glass. “That’s the plan.”

We raise our glasses and drink.

Damian sets his glass of water down and leans back in his chair.

“Touching speech, boss,” he says, voice rich with sarcasm. “You practice that one?”

I glance at him, frowning—half expecting a grin, a joke, anything that makes it clear he’s just being Damian. But there’s nothing playful in his eyes.

Jake shifts in his seat. Wyatt’s brow furrows.

“Inspirational,” Damian goes on, tone bright and theatrical. “Uplifting. Really makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Ryder lifts his eyes to Damian, one brow raised.

“You got something to say, Voss?”

“Me?” Damian tilts his head, eyebrows lifted in mock innocence. “Not a thing.”

Then he turns toward me. “What do you think, Max? Did Ryder make you feel all warm and fuzzy…inside?”

“Hey,” snaps Ryder—a warning.

But Damian doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Like deep, deep inside?” he continues.

Ryder’s chair scrapes back as he stands.

“That’s enough,” he snaps, voice low and lethal.

Damian turns to him.

“I'm just asking your girlfriend if your big, hard speech was thick enough to satisfy her—”

He’s still smiling when Ryder hits him.

A clean, brutal shot to the jaw—sharp enough to snap his head sideways.

Everyone jolts. Chairs scrape. I gasp—hands flying to my mouth. Jake’s already out of his seat. Wyatt shoves back his chair and lunges toward them.

Damian stands and hurls himself at Ryder, shoving his shoulders. Ryder responds with a second punch, fast and vicious. Blood glints on Damian’s lip.

“Stop!” I scream.

But Damian keeps coming, swinging wild. His fist connects with Ryder’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Ryder just growls low and drives forward.

They slam into the edge of the table. Plates clatter. A wine glass shatters on the floor. A candle tumbles under a chair.

“Stop it!” I shout again, staggering to my feet, heart hammering.

Ryder grabs a fistful of Damian’s hoodie and slams him into the wall. His other hand cocks back, ready to strike again.

“You watch your fucking mouth,” he snarls.

“Fuck you!” Damian barks, twisting, trying to break free.

Jake lunges between them. “Hey! Hey! That’s enough!”

Wyatt’s right behind him, hands on Ryder’s biceps, trying to wedge space between them—but Ryder doesn’t move.

Damian throws Ryder off and charges again, this time leading with his shoulder, slamming him into the table. Wood cracks. Silverware scatters. Another glass breaks.

“You think you’re so fucking untouchable,” Damian spits. “No rules for Ryder.”

Ryder throws him off hard and closes the distance again, chest to chest.

“You need to show some fucking respect,” he growls. “If not to me, then to Max.”

Damian sneers, blood in his teeth.

“Because you fucked her?” he snaps. “Congrats. You win.”

The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched in the chest.

Ryder slams him into the chairs—one topples and skitters across the floor. Damian twists, throws a punch into Ryder’s ribs. Ryder grunts, grabs him by the collar, and drives him into the wall. A framed photo crashes down and smashes.

I scream again.

They go to the floor, Ryder’s knee braced on Damian’s chest. Damian bucks hard and they roll into the living room, fists flying, out of control.

A lamp tips. A bookshelf rattles. The table wobbles, one leg cracking.

Ryder snarls and punches again. Damian lands one in return.

They’re going to kill each other.

Jake shouts something, trying to dive between them. Wyatt’s already there.

“Stand down!” Wyatt roars. “Fucking stand down!”

Finally— finally —he manages to wedge himself between them.

Ryder is breathing hard, fists clenched, chest heaving. Damian looks destroyed—lip split and eye swelling—but still ready to swing.

“Take a goddamn breath,” Wyatt snaps. “Both of you.”

Ryder steps back, but his jaw is tight. Damian twitches, like he might lunge again.

“No,” Wyatt barks. “Don’t. You’re done.”

Jake grabs Damian’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Damian shrugs him off. He’s still staring at Ryder, seething. Then, finally, he lets himself be pushed toward the door.

He doesn’t look at me.

My pulse thuds in my throat. My eyes sting.

I see the blood on Damian’s mouth. The sweat on his skin. That lock of dark hair falling over his eyes, damp and wild.

Damian, whom I’ve loved.

Damian, bloody with rage.

Because of me.

Because of my choices. My betrayal.

Jake throws me a last glance before stepping outside. “I’ll come by tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk.”

I nod, unable to speak. My throat’s too tight.

Behind me, Wyatt’s talking low, but whatever he says sets Ryder off.

“I need a fucking minute,” Ryder snarls, storming out the side door just as the sound of Jake’s truck rumbles to life.

Another engine starts.

Then they’re gone.

And it’s just me and Wyatt, standing in the ruins.

Broken chairs. Wine stains on the floor. Shattered glass in the corner.

And silence.

So much silence.