Page 38 of Hellbent
I fall asleep with his breath against my neck, his heartbeat steady against my spine. He smells like the cold air he brings in with him, and like something familiar, something that’s already started to feel like mine.
On Thursday, Jake is gone when I wake up. The sheets next to me are still warm. I stretch and rub my eyes. The light under the door tells me the sun is up, but the garage is quiet—too quiet. Usually, Wyatt is already moving around before dawn, making coffee or tinkering with something. But today, there’s nothing.
I push the blankets off and get dressed, grabbing Jake’s hoodie before heading into the shop, but the garage is empty.
A frown tugs at my lips. Wyatt never sleeps in.
The door to the shop swings open, and Damian steps inside, shaking fresh snow off his hair. His hazel eyes land on me, and he grins wolfishly.
“Mornin’, Finch.”
I cross my arms. “Wyatt’s not here.”
“Yeah.” He moves past me, grabbing a set of keys off the board against the back wall. His voice is casual, but I can hear the deflection in it. “He’ll be gone for a couple days.”
“Gone? Doing what?”
He shoots me a look that’s all playful arrogance. “Work.”
I shake my head. “Of course. Mysterious men and their mysterious jobs.”
Damian grins. “That bother you?”
But he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He tosses me a set of car keys, and I catch them without thinking.
“Good reflexes,” he says appreciatively.
We work through the morning side by side. Without Wyatt around, the energy is different—less structured, more unpredictable. Damian plays music louder than he ever allows, the speakers rattling with heavy guitar and crashing drums, and both of us leave our tools scattered around the floor—a liability that would drive him nuts.
I focus on the car in front of me, tightening a bolt on the engine block, listening to the rhythmic clank of Damian’s tools a few feet away.
It should be easy to ignore him…but it’s not.
I glance over, tugging up the sleeves of my coveralls from where they've slid down over my wrists again. Damian is leaning over the hood of a Charger, forearms flexing as he adjusts something under the frame. A lock of hair falls into his eyes, and he exhales sharply, flicking his head to the side, but it falls right back into place.
“You checking me out, Finch?” he asks without looking up. His voice is amused. Smug.
I scoff, tossing a rag at him. “You wish.”
He catches it, wiping grease off his fingers, then steps in closer—just enough to make me aware of the space between us. “I do, actually.”
“Cocky much?” It comes out smooth, even though my pulse is tripping over itself.
“Better than playing shy, sweetheart.” His voice dips low, and the curve of his mouth turns knowing, like he can see right through my act.
I meet his gaze and lift an eyebrow, daring him to keep going.
After a beat, he grins and steps back, walking away.
Later that afternoon, Damian pulls the cover off a sleek black sports car—a '69 Mustang Fastback, tucked in the back. I recognize it instantly. Wyatt’s prized project, definitely off-limits, weeks away from being ready. But Damian dangles the keys, his smile edged with challenge.
“Wanna go for a ride?”
“Wyatt would kill us.”
He grins. “Wyatt’s not here.”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to, but because I never would have before. For so long, my world has been dictated by rules—men’s rules, men’s power, men deciding what I can and can’t do. The part of me that still flinches at stepping out of linewhispersdon’t. But there’s another part—a new, louder part —that sayswhy the hell not?
