Page 26 of Hellbent
“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.
