Page 9 of Hellbent
My thumb finds the edge of the label on my bottle, and I start picking at it.
“Then let him ask. She doesn’t need to answer the same damn questions twice.” Wyatt turns to me, his blue eyes crinkling with kindness. “Ignore him, sweetheart. Damian is a jackass by nature. He doesn’t know any better.”
He drops into the chair across from us, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks me in the eye.
“Just know that you’re welcome here, okay?”
I glance up, surprised by the softness in his voice. Then I take a sip to swallow my smile.
As predicted, Ryder’s sharp brown eyes slide to me as we sit down to eat a few hours later at the house.
“So what’s the story, Maxwell? How did you end up on our porch in the middle of nowhere?”
This time, Wyatt doesn’t interrupt. They’re all waiting—Jake, Damian, Ryder, and him—to hear my answer.
I’m a little loose from the two beers we had at the garage before heading over—Wyatt on his motorcycle, me in the cab ofDamian’s truck. He barely said a word on the short drive, except a suggestive comment about how Jake would be happy to see me. Looking at Jake now, offering me a small, reassuring smile, I think I’m happy to see him, too. Even though I’ve gotten to know Wyatt and Damian better today, Jake still feels like my first friend here.
His smile makes this moment feel easier.
Still, I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to tell them—it’s just that I don’t know where to start. How do I explain why I had to run without unraveling the whole complicated mess with Billy?
“I, uh…I guess I was slipped something in my drink.” I focus on the key details. “My…boyfriend—or, ex-boyfriend, I guess—”
Why do I glance at Jake when I say that?
“He slipped something into my drink. Left me with someone else. But I ran. I ran until I saw your porch, and then I just couldn’t fight whatever was in that drink anymore.”
I look around the table, gauging reactions. Damian’s expression doesn’t change, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. Wyatt and Jake frown. But Ryder—
Ryder just watches me.
His stare is heavy and unsettling. The flash of anger in his dark eyes is sharp enough to make my stomach flip. His jaw clenches. His grip tightens around his beer bottle until his knuckles turn white.
I clear my throat. “It’s fucked-up, I know. I can’t go back. So that’s why I’m so grateful—for the job, for letting me crash here. Thank you.”
My throat feels thick. I blink, but no tears come. I never cry. I learned a long time ago that crying doesn’t do any good.
The silence stretches. A pin dropping would make a sound.
Then Ryder speaks.
“You’re safe with us.” His voice is low, controlled, like he’s reining something in. His grip tightens again, like he’s stranglingthe urge to act, then slowly loosens—deliberate and restrained. “Stay as long as you need.”
“Hear, hear,” says Wyatt, stretching an arm behind Damian to squeeze my shoulder.
Jake exhales sharply. “That’s fucked up.”
Ryder’s eyes flick to him. “Drop it,” he says. “Let’s talk about something else.”
But as the conversation shifts, I still feel Ryder’s eyes on me. Watching. Thinking. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
I flash him a grateful smile, and he gives me a small nod, barely there. Enough to make my chest loosen.
After a while, Damian collects the empty plates, and Ryder lifts his chin toward Wyatt.
“Need to talk to you,” he says.
Wyatt stands, and the two men leave the room, leaving me at the table with Jake and Damian.
