Page 47 of Hellbent
But eventually, I need the bathroom. I pull away, sliding off the couch, and they readjust, moving to opposite ends of the couch and debating whether they should change the music, their voices fading as I walk away.
The hallway is dim, the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet muted by the hum of conversation and the low crackle of the old record. I slip into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
It’s chilly in here—colder than the rest of the house—and I realize the small window above the toilet is open a crack. March air seeps in, sharp and bracing. I cross to shut it, but just as my fingers touch the sill, I hear voices drifting from the front porch right outside.
“She’s still a liability,” says Ryder. “We don’t know anything about her.”
I freeze, hand hovering near the window.
A pause. Then Wyatt, quieter but firm: “We know enough.”
“Do we?” Ryder retorts, an edge in his voice.
I hold perfectly still, breath caught, heart ticking louder than their voices.
The silence stretches for a beat before Wyatt finally says, “She’s not a threat.”
Ryder scoffs. “That’s not the same as saying she won’t bring trouble to our door. A boyfriend getting rough, losing his temper—that’s one thing. But drugging her? Lining up a buyer? That’snot just some asshole with control issues. That’s someone with connections.”
“You think he was more than just some rich prick?”
“I think he’s probably a hell of a lot more trouble than she’s letting on.”
When Wyatt speaks again, his voice is low and measured. “Then she needs us.”
A heavy silence settles between them.
I stand there, waiting—part of me hoping for more, part of me wishing I hadn’t heard any of it. But the conversation’s over. Only the wind answers, stirring the trees just outside the window.
I ease the window closed as quietly as I can, then finish what I came in here to do—quickly and mechanically.
I stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands, seeing the shadow of my childhood self reflected in my face. The little girl no one wanted.
When I return to the living room, the warm feelings of earlier are gone.
Jake and Damian are showing me memes on their phones when Wyatt comes into the living room.
“Let’s hit the road, kid,” he says to me.
Damian’s fingers wrap around my wrist, his grip loose but lingering. “Stay,” he murmurs.
Jake backs him up. “Yeah. No sense in going back when you could be right here, warm, comfortable…and thoroughly entertained.”
I want to stay. I already know how this night would go if I did—wrapped between them, caught in their heat, their attention, their hands. But then I glance at Wyatt, standing in the doorway, arms crossed and waiting. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel thesilent expectation. The protective concern. And the last thing I want to do is disappoint him.
So I stand, pulling my wrist free. “Next time,” I say quietly.
Jake leans back, stretching his arms behind his head and keeping his green eyes level on me. “Next time, then.”
Damian exhales like he already knew I’d leave. His fingers brush against my wrist before letting go. “Next time,” he echoes. Like a promise.
The ride back to the garage is fast and quiet. The wind bites against my skin and I press close to Wyatt’s back, arms tight around his waist. This is my favorite part of going up to the house—the ride back. The excuse to hold on. To keep him close, even if only for a little while.
We pull into the garage lot, he kills the engine, and I slide off the bike, shaking out my legs. Wyatt pulls off his helmet, running a hand through his hair before glancing at me.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I frown, adjusting the hem of my jacket. “Talk about what?”
