Page 46 of Hellbent
My pulse hammers, his attention unsettling me. I nod quickly, rolling the tire toward Wyatt. “Fine.”
He doesn’t go back to his laptop right away. He watches me roll the tire, and when I come back for the next one, he moves before I can protest, easily reaching up and bringing it down with one hand.
“I could’ve done it,” I say, more defensively than I intend to.
“No doubt,” he says, voice even. Something—approval?—flickers in his eyes. “You’re tougher than you look.”
The words hit somewhere deep, unexpected but warm.
“She’s got grit,” says Wyatt, flashing me a proud smile.
Ryder doesn’t respond. He just watches me for another beat, assessing, before finally turning back to his laptop.
That night, we have dinner at the house.
It’s a celebration—of what, I don’t know. The long wooden table in Ryder’s dining room is set with mismatched plates, loaded high with grilled steak and roasted potatoes.
Ryder gives a toast, standing and raising his glass. “To the men who get the job done. Who show up, see it through, and don’t back down. To Jake, Damian, and Wyatt.” He nods at each of them in turn. “I don’t take it for granted. None of us do.”
Wyatt inclines his head. Damian smiles faintly, but there’s no teasing in his eyes. Jake clinks his glass against Damian’s water before drinking, looking pleased but saying nothing.
I’m the only one at the table who doesn’t understand what, exactly, we’re celebrating. The secret work that took Jake and Damian away must be the same that pulled Wyatt from the garage.
I wonder if Wyatt’s a hacker, too.
I sit between Jake and Damian, their presence sparking electricity beneath my skin. The warmth of them keeps me hyperaware, my pulse humming beneath the surface. I clock the way the hair falls over Damian’s eyes, the way Jake’s hand rests on his thigh—broad, strong, long-fingered. When he notices me looking, he shifts, fingers slipping over mine beneath the table, curling around them. Soon, Damian’s arm is draped casually along the back of my chair, then his fingers are skimming my shoulder. A touch so light it could be mistaken for nothing.
Jake leans in under the guise of reaching for the wine, his breath warm against my cheek, and whispers, “You two look cozy,” with a conspiratorial smile.
Damian doesn’t even pretend to be subtle. The corner of his mouth lifts as he spears a wedge of potato. “She likes to be in the middle.”
My cheeks heat and Jake chuckles, nudging his knee against mine. The space between us feels tight and intimate, somethingmeant just for the three of us, like the rest of the table has faded into the background.
But it hasn’t, of course.
I glance up at Wyatt and Ryder, engaged in a serious conversation of their own, and see them flick their eyes our way, like they’re only too aware of the charged energy between me and Jake and Damian. Wyatt’s protectiveness has always been there, but Ryder’s dark eyes burn when I catch his look. He turns back to Wyatt, speaking as if nothing has distracted him, but there’s tension in his jaw.
As the meal winds down, I push my chair back and start gathering plates. The conversation continues behind me as I slip into the kitchen, setting the stack beside the sink and turning on the tap. Warm water rushes over my fingers—peaceful, although the distant clink of silverware and laughter from the dining room keep the house from feeling too quiet.
I don’t hear Wyatt step in behind me until I feel him. A hand at my lower back, hovering lightly.
The touch sends a jolt through me.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly.
“It’s just dishes.”
He doesn’t move his hand. It lingers—too long.
When I turn my head to look at him, his blue eyes are shadowed with fatigue. And then, just as smoothly as he placed it there, his hand is gone. He clears his throat, steps back. The warmth of his touch stays with me long after he’s left the room.
The wine keeps flowing long after dinner, although yesterday’s whiskey churns in my stomach. I stick to water along with Damian.
Someone puts on an old blues record and Jake and Damian and I sprawl out in the living room, leaving the grown-ups to talk.
Damian leans back into the couch, one arm slung across the cushions behind me. Jake, on my other side, smiles wickedly as he tips his glass against his lips, watching me over the rim.
I rest my fingers on Jake’s thigh while Damian’s voice is in my ear, alternately teasing and flirtatious. We sit in our little cocoon charged with electricity and fire, and I try not to wonder what becomes of all this in the long-term, and just enjoy it now.
