Page 8 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

I take off Jake’s t-shirt and change into yesterday’s clothes, running my fingers through my hair before checking myself in the mirror over the dresser.

Not bad. Pale, yeah, but healthier than I looked a week ago. I straighten my shoulders, school my face into something neutral, maybe even likable, and follow the sound of clinking dishware into the kitchen.

Ryder’s got his hair tied back, and he has a shirt on now—a good thing and a bad thing.

I won’t be left breathless by the sight of his half-naked body again. But despite myself, I’d probably do anything to see it one more time.

Not the point, though. This isn’t about perving on a man who’s probably a decade older than me, anyway. It’s about making peace, proving I can contribute, making sure I have a reason to stay.

I hover in the doorway. “Hey.”

Ryder’s sitting at the table, slicing the ends off a pile of green beans. He lifts unsmiling brown eyes to me.

I raise a hand in a half-hearted wave.

Idiot . Why did I wave?

“Hey,” he answers, already looking back down at the cutting board. Not rude, exactly. Just…dismissive.

Even through his fitted white t-shirt, the hard lines of muscle pull my attention against my will.

I shove my hands into my back pockets. “Can I help?”

He doesn’t even glance up. “Nah, I got it.”

For a second, I almost leave. I could retreat to Jake and Damian’s room, finish Jake’s hacking book, even though it’s boring as hell. But I can’t afford to take the easy way out. I need to show him I can pitch in. Add value.

I linger, feeling increasingly awkward, then finally blurt out, “I don’t want to be a burden. I want to contribute.”

My cheeks warm as Ryder lifts his eyes again, frowning slightly.“Where’s Wyatt?”

The question throws me. Like he’s really asking, Why are you here without him? As if Wyatt were my keeper.

I shift uncomfortably. “He’s at home, I guess. I went out with Jake and Damian last night, and they figured it’d be easier for me to stay here. But when I woke up, they were gone.”

Ryder’s jaw flexes. “That why you were wearing Jake’s t-shirt this morning?”

His voice is flat, but heavy with implication. His eyes flick down my body. Then, just as quickly, he looks back down and keeps chopping.

My cheeks burn. Like I’ve been caught. Which is insane.

Like he has any right to judge.

I tamp down my embarrassment and push forward. “Do you know where they are?”

If Jake were here, this conversation would be easier. Ryder clearly has no interest in talking to me.

“Work.”

I frown. That doesn’t make sense. The garage is closed on Sundays. And Jake works a normal nine-to-five office job.

“What kind of work?”

The knife slices cleanly through the last bean. Ryder kicks his chair back with a loud scrape, scooping the trimmed ends into his palm.

“The kind you don’t ask about.” He dumps them into the garbage.

For a moment I don’t know what to say. Like hacking? I’ve spent most of the day reading Jake’s book about it. But what the hell would that even mean? They’re hackers?

I exhale, shifting awkwardly, thinking I should leave. Just take the hint. But just as I start to turn away, Ryder surprises me.

He grabs a potato peeler from the drawer and holds it out.

“Here.”

I take the offering, forbidding myself from noticing his strong hands and the veins running along his tattooed forearms.

If winning him over means peeling potatoes, I’ll peel every last one.

For a while, the silence stretches thick and heavy between us. He moves through the kitchen with purpose, grabbing ingredients without a word, while I peel whatever he hands me.

“Didn’t peg you for a guy who cooks,” I say eventually.

Ryder glances at me. “I know enough to get by.” He picks up a peeled carrot and starts chopping, his movements methodical. “And I don’t like takeout every night.”

I take a small risk. “So there’s more to you than just being the scowling, silent type.”

He doesn’t look up, but I catch the way the corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

Something about that tiny shift in him makes me reckless.

Or maybe I just want to feel like I’ve got any read on him at all.

We keep working, side by side, but the image of that woman—glossy hair, fancy coat—keeps circling back, and I don’t know what to do with the heat it puts in my chest. So I test him.

“I didn’t expect such a…fancy overnight guest,” I say lightly, pretending to focus on the carrot in my hand.

His knife pauses mid-slice. Barely. But I catch it.

I feign casual. “She just didn’t seem like your vibe, is all,” I add.

He shrugs, goes back to chopping. “She isn’t.”

I glance at him. “But you slept with her.”

He exhales through his nose. “Thought you didn’t care who I slept with.”

“I don’t.” I slice the potato in half with more force than necessary. “Just making conversation.”

Ryder doesn’t respond. He just keeps working, his knife clicking out a staccato rhythm on the cutting board, and I let it go.

I focus on chopping everything he hands me—moving on to onions now—while he fillets a pile of chicken breasts with the kind of precision that makes me wonder how many knives he’s handled in his life. And somehow, as we work, the silence shifts to something much more comfortable.

The pot simmering on the stove starts to fill the kitchen with a rich, homey scent. Ryder tosses in a handful of herbs, stirring them in with ease.

At some point, he glances at my cutting board. “That’s not how you chop an onion.”

I scowl. “Oh, I’m sorry, were we competing for ‘Most Efficient Meal Prep?’ Didn’t realize there was a judging panel.”

“You’ll cut your fingers that way. Here.”

Before I can react, he reaches for my hand and curls my fingers under, away from the knife blade.

“Curl your fingers like this,” he murmurs. “Use your knuckles as a guide.”

I swear the air between us crackles, suddenly volatile. Ryder stills for half a second, like he feels it too, before he clears his throat and moves his hand away.

“Try again,” he says, voice gruff.

I exhale slowly, gripping the knife harder than necessary, and slice the onion with my fingers curled under, my pulse loud in my ears.

“Good,” is all he says.

We don’t speak after that, but shift back into comfortable silence. After a while, I mutter, “This is nice.”

Ryder glances at me. “What is?”

I don’t know why I say it out loud, but I just shrug. “This. Doing something normal.”

I expect him to scoff, to brush it off, but instead, he just gives a small nod.

It feels like the first real, soft moment we’ve had.

By the time dinner is ready, headlights sweep across the driveway, catching the edges of snowbanks through the kitchen window. The others are back.

Something in me deflates. The afternoon with Ryder had somehow turned…nice. The return of the others means it’s over.

He grabs a stack of plates from the cabinet, gives me a look, and for a second I imagine he might almost say something. But then the front door swings open, laughter spilling in with the cold, and the spell breaks.

Ryder turns away, carrying the plates out to the dining room, and just like that, the space between us seals shut again.

Jake smiles when he sees me—a seductive, private smile just for me that makes goosebumps shiver over my flesh from head and toe.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs as he walks toward me. His palm slides over the back of my neck, warm and possessive, as he bends down to press a kiss to the top of my head. It’s so gentle. So easy. And it undoes me. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

My stomach flips. God, he’s dangerous.

I look up, doe-eyed and mushy, a stupid grin already spreading across my face—

And then out of the corner of my eye I catch Ryder staring.

His dark brows knit together, jaw flexing, the hint of a frown pulling at his mouth.

The warmth in my chest snuffs out.

“When’s dinner?” Damian asks.

“Twenty minutes,” Ryder answers, turning his eyes to Damian. “Or whenever Wyatt gets here.”

“Good,” Jake says, stretching his arms over his head. “I need a shower.”

“Oh, me too,” I say, suddenly remembering my earlier towel debacle. A flush creeps up my neck.

“Perfect.” Jake winks, sliding his hand down my arm before lacing our fingers together. “You can come with me.”

His tone is casual. Playful. But it lands differently now that Ryder is here.

It’s Jake’s house too , I remind myself. He’s a grown man. I don’t owe anyone an apology.

So why does it feel like Ryder is witnessing something he shouldn’t?

Damian quirks a brow, a suggestive grin curling his lips.

I stand up, face warm, hand still entwined with Jake’s.

“We need towels,” I murmur, letting him lead me out of the room.