Page 30 of Hellbent
Jake just grins and takes a sip of beer. “Yup.”
But Ryder doesn’t even pretend to be amused. He just watches me levelly, and then he speaks.
“Eventful day for you, Maxwell.” His voice is mild, but there’s something underneath it—something knowing.
The warmth of Jake’s hands on my body still lingers, like an imprint burned into my skin. I swallow and lift my beer, taking a slow sip.
“Guess so.”
Ryder’s gaze flicks briefly to Jake, then back to me, like he’s piecing together something obvious but unsaid.
My cheeks warm. He knows. They all do.
The food is good, better than I expected, and the drinks go down easy. The atmosphere at the table is boisterous, conversation flowing effortlessly with Jake and Damian trading stories, and Wyatt chiming in with dry humor. I even catch myself smiling.
But across the table, Ryder is watching me.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would call out. But I feel the way his eyes track me when I take a sip of my beer, the way his fingers tighten slightly around his glass when I laugh at something Damian says.
I don’t acknowledge it, but my skin prickles under the heat of his gaze.
Then it’s gone. He lifts his drink and looks away like it never happened.
Just when I’m loosening up, laughing and not sparing a single thought for Billy or the clubhouse, Damian—because of course it’s Damian—turns my way and starts up a new conversation.
“So, Max,” he says, in that lazy, cocky drawl, “you ever think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t run that night?”
My stomach clenches.
I force a casual sip of beer. “Not really.”
Damian looks surprised. “I would. Like, would you still be with that guy, do you think?”
Something shifts at the table. A quiet ripple of tension.
Ryder is watching me closely now.
I shrug, forcing an easy tone. “No. But there’s no point in even thinking about it. I ran. I made it here. That’s all that matters.”
Ryder tilts his head slightly. Calculating.
“But why here?”
I hesitate. “What do you mean?”
Ryder’s fingers tap against his beer bottle, but Damian, seeing where he’s going, picks up the thread and leans forward.
“You were drugged. Out of it. Yet somehow you ended up on our porch,” says Damian. “Not at a gas station. Not at a hospital. You have to admit that’s weird.”
I grip my fork tighter. “I just ran in one direction. I guess I got lucky.”
“I’ll say you got lucky,” Damian agrees, leaning back, but Ryder’s gaze sharpens.
“Unless luck had nothing to do with it,” says Ryder, quiet but pressing.
Wyatt clears his throat. “Doubt she had much of a master plan, Ryder.”
“Maybe not. But whoever she ran from might have.”
