Page 37 of Hellbent
CHAPTER NINE
WYATT IS DETERMINED.
It’s just how he’s built—steady, focused, unshakably disciplined. The kind of man who’s up before sunrise, running in the cold, then finishing with pull-ups behind the shop, body moving with slow, brutal control. The kind of man who, in his late forties, could outlast men half his age, thanks to decades of sweat and sheer stubbornness.
Once he commits to something, he doesn’t let up.
Which I’m learning firsthand, now that he’s decided to teach me how to fix cars.
My days in the shop had been stretching long—hours slumped over the counter, working my way through dry, political books borrowed from Wyatt’s bookshelf, serving the slow trickle of customers—until one afternoon he’d leaned in from the garage, wiping grease from his knuckles, and said, “I think it’s time you learned to do something useful.”
Since then, he’s thrown himself into teaching me with thesame relentless focus he brings to everything else.
“Ease up. You’re gonna round it off,” Wyatt says now, arms crossed as the wrench slips for the third time.
“I’m getting it,” I mutter, frustration snapping in my tone.
“Doesn’t look like it. You’re trying to muscle it.”
My grip tightens. “I’m trying to loosen it.”
“Use leverage. Let the tool do the work.”
I grit my teeth and exhale sharply, repositioning my grip exactly as he showed me. My palms ache. But when the bolt finally loosens, I feel a rush of satisfaction surge through me.
Wyatt nods once, a faint flicker of approval crossing his face. “Now do it faster next time.”
That’s all I get from him before he moves on, leaving me kneeling beside a dirty sedan, knees on the cold floor. Damian, sitting on a creeper beside the car next to me, watches the whole thing with a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Man’s got the emotional range of drywall,” he quips. “Bet that was the closest thing to a compliment he’s given in a month.”
I stifle a laugh. Damian and I have settled into a rhythm—a constant back-and-forth, full of teasing and baiting, little jabs that neither of us ever take too far. Somewhere along the way, it’s become familiar. I’ve learned how to throw his taunts right back at him, how to parry his sharp, flirtatious remarks with my own.
“But look at you,” he continues, hazel gaze flicking over me appreciatively. “Getting your hands dirty. That’s a good look on you, Finch.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small twitch at the corner of my mouth.
“Yeah? I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Not all of them.” He flashes a sly grin, his black hair falling into his eyes. “What can I say? I just like a woman with grease under her nails.”
He stands, rolling his shoulders in a slow, self-assured motion that makes it impossible not to notice, and walks toward the workbench.
“Don’t let Wyatt work you too hard,” he tosses over his shoulder, snatching up a clipboard and tapping it against his palm. Then he turns, pointing it at me. “Unless, of course, you like it rough.”
I slowly lift up my middle finger, keeping my expression neutral, but my pulse betrays me, kicking up as he disappears into the office.
At night, it's Jake.
Since that first time, he’s come to my room every night.
The second time, I was less surprised when my bedroom door opened.
The third time, I was waiting.
By the fourth, I’d started unlocking the side door after Wyatt went to bed.
He comes late, when the world is quiet, and slips beneath the covers, his body fitting against mine. His hands are warm against my bare skin, exploring and coaxing until I’m begging. When he takes me, it’s slow and deep—like he wants to make sure I feel every inch of him, like he’s carving himself into me. We move together in breathless silence, mouths pressed to shoulders, hands over lips, trying not to be heard—but when restraint shatters, it’s never quiet.
