Page 102 of Hellbent
I walk inside and pause, feeling the cool air brush over my skin.
Ryder walks to the first-floor bathroom and nudges the door open, pulls a towel down from the shelf and hands it to me.
“Here.”
I take it and stand there, empty and numb, as he turns and disappears up the stairs.
A second later, the pipes creak. The shower kicks on above me. I step into the bathroom, close the door, and strip off my clothes with shaking hands.
The light overhead is too bright. I turn the water on without thinking. Step in before it’s warm.
The spray hits me like shattered glass, and I flinch, but I don’t move.
I just stand there. Wrap my arms around myself, bow my head. The water slides down my skin, carrying blood and dirt and pieces of the night with it.
The water warms up, bringing relief, and I don’t know how long I stand there for.
Eventually, I shut off the tap. Dry off. Wrap myself in the towel that smells like Ryder’s laundry soap. Slightly more normal on the outside, but my legs feel boneless. My heart won’t slow down.
I step out into the hallway and see a warm light glowing from the kitchen.
Ryder stands at the counter, bare-chested, damp hair curling around his shoulders. A bottle of whiskey sits open in front of him along with two empty glasses.
He looks up and his eyes rake over me—towel clutched to my chest, wet hair dripping over my shoulders, finger-shaped bruises already forming on my arms—and something dark flickers in his expression.
I walk in slowly, and sit down at the table without a word.
He places the whiskey and the glasses on the table and then takes a seat, pouring two fingers into each glass and pushing one toward me.
I pick it up and knock it back in one swallow. The burn hits hard—fiery down my throat and pooling in my chest.
Ryder lifts his glass. The tattoos at his throat shift when he swallows. My eyes drop to the hand resting on the table. Theblood’s gone now—but the ink stays. A wolf, inked in black and gray, covers the back of his hand. Hyper-realistic. Its eyes look straight into mine and I stare back.
The whiskey spreads through my veins, loosening the knot in my chest. Breathing comes more easily. Ryder refills both of our glasses, and I reach for mine, knocking it back again like it might chase everything away.
Still, neither of us speaks.
The silence between us feels thick, like the air before a storm.
My pulse has started to settle, but my mind won’t stop. Flashes come unbidden—Scar’s hand on my mouth. The alley. My head slamming into pavement. The metallic taste of blood.
I swallow. Blink. Try to breathe.
A tremble starts in my hand, spreading up my arms and across my shoulders. And then something inside me cracks.
It doesn't start as a sob. Just a sound. A breath that catches and doesn't let go…
The tears hit like a tsunami. Huge, messy, and sudden.
I press my palm to my mouth, trying to stifle it, but my whole body shudders.
One second I’m holding myself together. The next, I’m not.
The sob that rips out of me is ugly and loud. I double forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, hands over my face like I can hold the grief in, but it doesn’t work. It keeps coming—sharp, gasping, ragged—wracked with sobs that go deeper than just tonight. It’s not just the bikers. It’s the weight of it all. The running. The hiding. The bounty. The years of looking over my shoulder.
And Ryder is there almost instantaneously.
He kneels in front of me, wraps his arms around my shaking body. One hand curls around the back of my neck, the other in my hair, grounding me. I pitch forward, collapsing into him, and he catches me before I can fall.
