Page 3 of Hellbent
I try to stand. Other than the throbbing headache spreading across my scalp, I feel normal. The dizziness is gone, and my stomach growls, making me realize I’m starving.
Tiptoeing across the room, I move closer to the voices, listening carefully.If they’re bikers,I decide,I’ll run.
And if they’re not?
I didn’t have a plan when I ran away from the senator. There’s no safe place waiting for me, no one I can call. I’m alone in the world with nothing but the day-old tube dress I’m wearing and my worn-out socks. I can’t go outside in February dressed like this.
Again.
I’m vulnerable, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been vulnerable for as long as I can remember and I’ve managed to survive. I may not have much, but I have faith in my ability to take care of myself.
“Listen,” Jake is saying, “I don’t know how she ended up here, but something happened to her and she needs help.”
“I’m not saying we kick her out,” comes a gruff response. “I’m just saying let’s not forget security protocol. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“What the jarhead is saying is that we should assume she’s an enemy plant until proven otherwise. A beautiful, half-dressedgirl appearing on our doorstep in the middle of nowhere? When it’s that unlikely, you keep your fucking wits about you.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re both so fucking paranoid,” Jake mutters. “She’s a girl.”
Footsteps approach, and Jake rounds the doorway, catching me hovering just outside it.
“Hey,” he says, green eyes widening. “You’re up.”
I nod, my cheeks warming. No point pretending I wasn’t eavesdropping.
He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. I follow him in, my pulse tapping at my throat as I cross the threshold.
The kitchen is pure cottage-core: oak cabinets, a stained-glass pendant light over a round wooden table, and a vintage, olive-green stove that practically begs someone’s grandma to make cookies.
The three men sitting there, though, look anything but grandmother-approved.
The oldest one, with gray-streaked hair and a broad chest, rests his forearms on the table, thick fingers loosely clasped. He looks older than the others, maybe mid-forties, but even the shapeless navy coveralls he wears can’t hide the strength in his frame. Across from him, a younger guy slouches in his chair, dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a full mouth and a sharp jaw, and something about his expression reminds me of Billy—that same look, something between boredom and amusement. He wears the same coveralls as the older guy.
The man between them is different. He sits with his arms crossed, army-green t-shirt stretched over a broad chest. Tattoos snake over the backs of his hands, up his forearms, even his neck. Long, dark-blond hair is pulled back from a chiseled face, a trim beard tracking the strong line of his jaw. Thick, straight brows draw together over dark, unreadable eyes.
I know immediately he’s the leader. He doesn’t just sit at the table—he commands it.
Not that the others seem weak. They’re some of the strongest men I’ve ever seen together in one room, and I’ve been in a motorcycle club since I was sixteen.
Even Jake, who pulls out a chair for me, has definition under that t-shirt that’s hard to miss.
I know what I must look like to them—petite, young face… A lost little girl. But I meet their eyes as I sit, trying to project a calm I don’t quite feel.
The older man speaks first. “Feeling better?”
His blue eyes rake over me, sharp and assessing.
“A lot,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”
A silence stretches. They’re waiting for me to explain myself, but I don’t. Not yet. Let them ask the questions. Behind me, Jake’s presence is fortifying, like he’s on my side.
“We don’t get a lot of young women showing up on our doorstep,” the older man continues. “Seems like you landed yourself in some kind of trouble.”
“Running from it,” I correct. “Hope Ididn’tland in it.”
The one with the black hair snorts, his mouth twitching in amusement.
