Page 83 of Hellbent
Need.
The kind of pull that unravels reason.
His grip tightens for just a second like he might actually pull me in—
But he speaks instead, low and raw. “Jake and Damian are my brothers.”
That word,brothers,drops between us. I’m standing here, wrecked by the pull between us, and it can’t go anywhere. I’ve made my choice. And Jake and Damian are family to him.
I don’t know what to say. I just hold his gaze—unblinking, my chest rising and falling with my breath—and then he exhales like something inside him is caving in. His shoulders drop the slightest bit, and he steps in closer, eyes locked on mine.
“If you were mine,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with heat, “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you.”
And then he lets go. Steps back. Moves away.
One step. Another.
He flips the tailgate up. Takes the long way around the truck while I stand there, frozen.
“Tell Damian he could’ve just asked me to drive the damn transmission down,” he says from the porch, his lip curling in a faint smile—but his eyes don’t match it. There’s something heavy in them.
And then he turns and walks back inside.
Leaving me reeling.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE HEAT IS brutal. End-of-June sun baking down on the garage, cicadas screaming in the trees, air thick enough to chew. I’m in cutoff shorts, a ribbed tank soaked through with sweat, and my beat-up Converse, the laces loose from slipping them on and off all day to cool off my feet. Even with the bay doors thrown wide open, it’s stifling.
I’m sorting lug nuts by size, an absolutely soul-sucking task, when I hear the low, familiar rumble of Wyatt’s Harley.
It’s been weeks.
I straighten fast, nearly dumping the whole tray, and rush toward the open bay. Gravel crunches as the bike rolls in.
His presence hits me with a full-body ache. Long legs swinging off the seat, worn jeans clinging to lean muscle, sun-darkened arms streaked with dust. His helmet comes off, and his salt-and-pepper hair falls messily into place. He tucks the helmet under his arm, walking toward the open bay doors like no time has passed at all.
And his eyes, when they find me, flash that sharp, impossible blue.
He smiles.
I move before I think. Shoes scraping, heart lurching—I cross the lot and wrap my arms around his solid, sweaty, perfect torso.
“Hey,” I say into his chest. “You’re back.”
His arms come around me tight, big hands splayed across my back, rough and steady, and I just breathe, letting relief sink into my bones.
“I missed your grumpy ass,” I murmur, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
“Still haven’t burnt the place down, huh?”
“Only because I keep stopping Damian from lighting matches.”
He huffs out a laugh and I see something in his gaze—something tired, maybe a little haunted—that makes my chest twist. He always looks like this when he comes back. Like part of him is still somewhere else.
“Come on,” I say, tugging him by the wrist. “You look like you need some terrible shop coffee.”
Inside the staff area, the fridge hums in the corner, cicadas drone just beyond the half-open window, and somewhere in the garage, Luis bangs something around, probably working on the Impala again. I pour Wyatt a mug while he drops into one of the mismatched chairs, exhaling like it’s the first time he’s sat down in days.
