Page 4 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

ALL WEEK I work in the shop, and by Saturday, I can hardly believe it’s only been days since I landed on Ryder’s porch, unconscious and half-frozen.

It feels like I’ve been here forever. I’ve settled into life at the garage so easily I could almost forget the life that came before, Billy and the club.

Almost.

In the mornings, Wyatt wakes me with a knock on the door, and I pull on my coveralls while he brews coffee. We eat breakfast in the shop’s tiny kitchen before opening up. By the time Damian arrives, the lights are on, the doors are unlocked, and the day begins.

Wyatt and Damian spend their hours in the garage, while I handle the front—answering calls, ringing up customers, settling into a rhythm I never thought I’d have. It’s a simple life, and every night as I lie down on my makeshift bed, I pray it lasts a little longer.

In the evenings, we eat dinner together—either me and Wyatt upstairs in his apartment, or with Damian and Jake downstairs in the garage.

If it’s the two of us, Wyatt makes something simple.

If it’s the four of us, he orders in, or Jake brings takeout.

It never seems planned, but it always works out.

I try to help by doing the dishes and cleaning up.

Ryder only shows up once all week, and even then, it’s just to talk business with Wyatt. He barely acknowledges me. He’s polite, but distant, and he’s gone before the food’s even finished.

But even when he’s not here, he’s impossible to ignore. I catch myself thinking about him, replaying our few interactions, analyzing everything I did and said.

It’s natural , I tell myself. Like a wolf-pack thing. He’s clearly the one in charge, whether or not anyone says it out loud, and of course I want his approval. It’s hierarchy, that’s all.

But the way he moves, the low baritone of his voice, the heat I imagine in his eyes—it all loops in my head like a track I can’t turn off.

It’s distracting. But even so, in the space that he leaves behind, someone else is getting under my skin.

With Jake, it’s different. There’s a tenderness beneath the pull between us. I’m conscious of how fast this is, how soon. I’ve never been with anyone but Billy, and it would be crazy to start something now—especially when I don’t even know if I’ll be here next week.

But Jake is kind. Warm. Attentive. My favorite parts of the week have been the nights he dropped by the garage after work, lingering until Wyatt goes up to bed and Damian goes home so that we can watch TV together in a crackling, charged silence.

Always, there’s the waiting. The space between us electric. The way he watches me like he already knows what I’m going to choose.

I know I could kiss him if I wanted to. I can feel it in the way he holds my gaze, the knowing tilt of his smile. But I hold myself back.

Because Billy is still in me, still in my bones.

I can feel the weight of his specter hanging over me, like his hand is gripping the back of my neck.

If anyone in the club had tried to kiss me, Billy probably would have killed him.

There’s a deep, almost Pavlovian training in me that I can’t quite shake.

A belief that I’m off-limits. That I belong to Billy. Even now, when I know I don’t.

Besides, Jake and I are never really alone.

When Jake is over, Wyatt comes downstairs periodically, always with an excuse. A bottle of water from the fridge. A set of keys he left behind. One night, he wanders through, barely sparing us a glance, but then lingers for almost half an hour, pretending to check something on the shop’s computer.

I don’t think I imagine the looks that pass between them—the way Wyatt’s brow lifts in silent judgment, the way Jake smirks like he’s daring him to say something.

I’m learning the routines of life here, but today I experience something I’ve never had in my entire life.

I get paid.

After our morning coffee, Wyatt flips the “Open” sign, unlocks the cash register, and gestures toward two envelopes inside. One says “Damian Voss.” The thicker one says “Max.”

Like a complete idiot, I just stare at it.

“What is it?”

Foolishly, my mind jumps to something official. Some kind of notice, a letter telling me my time is up. A demand to vacate the premises.

Wyatt shoots me a look. “It’s your pay.” His tone is gruff, but not unkind. More like, What the hell else would it be?

“My pay?”

It never even occurred to me that I’d be paid for my work here. Just having a safe place to stay and three meals a day felt like enough. An unbelievable privilege.

I stare at the envelope, my hands frozen at my sides, until the bell over the front door jingles.

Damian strides in, already in his navy Leathernecks coveralls, his swagger effortless. He looks like trouble as usual—hazel eyes sharp with mischief, that lock of jet-black hair falling across his face. He meets my gaze, and there’s a flicker of something in it, something playful and knowing.

And I notice him.

I really notice him.

Guilt slams into me immediately, stupid and unnecessary. I don’t owe Jake anything. I don’t owe anyone anything.

I’m free now. I can look at any man I want.

“Payday,” Damian says, flashing a dazzling white smile as he reaches past me to grab his envelope. He smells fresh, clean, sharp with a subtle fragrance, and warmth flushes over my skin.

I shake it off, refocus.

Payday.

I have never in my life had money of my own.

“I didn’t write you a check because I don’t know your last name,” Wyatt is saying from the sink, rinsing out his coffee mug. “Figured you wouldn’t mind being paid under the table, anyway.”

I shake my head. I wouldn’t be able to cash a check. I don’t have a bank account.

“It’s Finch,” I say, my throat dry. “My last name. It’s Finch.”

A beat of silence.

“Maxwell Finch,” Damian repeats, testing it out. His lips curl into something wicked. “Great. Now we can creep your social media.”

I let out a weak laugh, finally picking up the envelope and shoving it into my pocket.

I don’t have social media.

I don’t have a past that exists anywhere normal people can find. But it’s looking more and more like I have a future.

It’s quiet in the shop all day, but my mind is restless. Every so often, I reach into my pocket just to feel the envelope, reassuring myself it’s real. I still haven’t opened it. It doesn’t matter how much is in there. Any amount will feel like a fortune to me.

I spend most of the day thinking about what to buy, and all I can think about is food.

I don’t know how to cook. In the clubhouse, meals were scavenged, stolen, or ordered in bulk.

Sometimes Billy would splurge on a massive takeout order, other times the guys would throw together a barbecue.

But food had never been important to me—it was just there, something to grab between fights, parties, and sleep.

Here, it’s different. Meals are structured, shared, and even though I haven’t had to lift a finger to contribute, I want to. The first thing I want to do with the money in my pocket is pitch in.

The second thing? Clothes.

I’ve been living in my Leathernecks coveralls. The little black dress I arrived in is crumpled in the corner of my makeshift bedroom, abandoned like the past I ran from. While I’ve been able to shower every morning in the shop bathroom, I need clean clothes.

I’m Googling “How to cook dinner” when the bell over the front door jingles.

I glance at the time. Five o’clock already. The whole day disappeared in a haze of shopping plans and pointless YouTube tutorials on boiling rice.

Jake steps inside, and moments later, Damian and Wyatt emerge from the garage, smudged with grease. Damian flops onto the worn-out couch in the lounge area. I spin on my stool to face them as Wyatt flips the “Closed” sign and locks the front door.

He pulls three beers from the fridge and passes them out. Once again, I notice that he doesn’t pass one to Damian.

Damian leans back as we twist the tops off our beers, arms spread across the back of the couch. “Well, it's Saturday night. Are we going out, or what?”

Jake takes a sip of his beer, glancing at him. “Hoping to redeem yourself after last weekend?”

Damian scoffs. “One rejection doesn’t count when I had two other numbers by the end of the night.”

Jake smirks. “ Two rejections, if you count the bartender who asked if you ever shut up.”

Damian flips him off and shakes his head. “You’re just jealous.” He stretches his legs out. “What about you, boss? When’s the last time you even went on a date?”

Wyatt lifts an eyebrow. “None of your business.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Damian groans. “You could probably pull half the women in town if you ever left this place.”

“What makes you think I need any help with that?”

Jake snorts. “Remember that waitress at Dewy’s? The one who nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks when Wyatt smiled at her?”

Damian barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that was hilarious. You don’t have to lift a damn finger, do you, Captain?” He shakes his head, smirking. “Must be nice. Some of us actually have to try.”

I shouldn’t care. And I don’t.

But as Wyatt runs a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, arms crossing over his chest, something unexpected tugs at me.

Wyatt’s not just the strong presence I’ve been starting to trust and rely on—he’s an attractive man.

Rugged. Chiseled. A man other women would notice.

And the thought makes me feel… jealous .

I shake it off, forcing a smile like I wasn’t thinking anything at all.

Wyatt keeps his easy, unreadable grin, drains his beer, and gives us a lazy salute before heading for the side door. A moment later, I hear the steady thump of his boots on the stairs.

Damian watches him go, then turns to us with a wicked grin. “Well. Guess that means it’s just us. Finish those and let’s go find some trouble.”

“How old are you, anyway?” Jake asks, his eyes running over me like he’s searching for clues.