Page 35 of Hellbent
Shit.
The scent of coffee hits me before I even step into the kitchen. Wyatt is at the counter, pouring a mug, his broad shoulders tense under his shirt. My stomach tightens, but I force myself to walk in like nothing’s different.
“Morning,” I say, reaching for the pot.
His eyes flick to mine. Something unreadable lingers there for half a second before he nods. His jaw tightens just slightly as he looks away. “Morning.”
That’s it. No comment, no accusation. But the air between us feels heavier than usual.
I pour my coffee, hyper-aware of every move. He doesn’t look at me again, but I can feel the weight of the silence between us. I don’t know if I want him to say something or if I’m relieved he doesn’t.
When Damian strolls into the shop about an hour later, he’s grinning like the devil himself. He takes one look at me, then at Wyatt, then back at me.
“Damn, Finch,” he drawls, leaning against the counter. “You’re glowing.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
His smirk is pure sin. “Just saying. You look…well-rested.”
Jake is going to die.
Heat crawls up my neck, and Damian watches, enjoying every second of my suffering. Wyatt, on the other hand, doesn’t react at all. He just picks up his phone and heads for the door.
“I’ll be in the garage,” is all he says before disappearing.
The moment he’s gone, Damian chuckles. “Aw, don’t be shy, Finch. I think it’s cute. Jake sneaking in like a horny teenager. Classic.”
I groan, covering my face. “Do you have to be such an asshole?”
“Always.” He winks and leans back against the counter, dragging his gaze over me in a way that makes heat prickle down my spine.
It makes me flash back to the night before last—to the moment my gaze locked with his and he watched me come apart under Jake’s mouth—and my cheeks flush.
His lips curl like my thoughts are showing on my face.
“Whatever’s going through your head right now,” he says in a low, amused tone, “I hope it’s about me.”
I straighten, pretending I’m not flustered. “Not everything’s about you, Damian.”
“No?” His brows lift in mock disappointment. He presses a hand to his chest. “Damn. And here I thought we had a moment.”
I swallow, shifting my weight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His grin turns wicked. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.”
I grip the glass countertop, fighting to stay still, but he sees right through me. He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, voice dropping lower.
“So shy now,” he muses, his sly smile deepening. “You sure as hell weren’t the other night.”
My breath catches.
His grin widens, knowing. “Didn’t peg you for the type to like an audience, that’s all.”
Then he turns, swings open the door to the garage, and strolls out like he didn’t just set my whole body on fire.
I exhale sharply, pressing my palms against the counter, trying to gather myself.
I’m not unsure what shakes me more—Wyatt’s silence, or Damian’s heat.
