Page 48 of Hellbent
He exhales through his nose, tucking his helmet under one arm. “You seem quiet.”
I scoff. “I’m always quiet.”
Wyatt laughs outright, shaking his head. “No, you most definitely are not.”
That throws me for a second, and I’m almost defensive—until I see the warm grin he’s giving me.
“Well, not compared to you,” I concede.
His smile lingers, but his gaze sharpens just a little. “You looked like you were having a good time. Then something changed.” A pause. “You wanna tell me what it was?”
I hesitate, shifting my weight.
“I heard you and Ryder,” I admit, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “On the porch.”
Wyatt doesn’t blink. “Yeah?”
I exhale. “You two were talking. He thinks I’m a liability.”
Wyatt doesn’t answer right away. He inhales, like he’s thinking about what to say next, his jaw flexing once before he answers. “He’s worried about what he doesn’t know. We’re trained to look for threats.”
“I’m not a threat,” I say quietly.
“I know, honey.”
He steps forward and touches my shoulder. It should be nothing—just a familiar, grounding touch—but it isn’t. There’s a flicker of something undeniable, the same quiet heat that burned through me when his hand lingered on my back in the kitchen. A hesitation, like he feels it too.
I blink hard, willing it away. And as if sensing it, he drops his hand.
“We just want to make sure you’re safe.”
“It sounds like Ryder just wants me gone.”
Wyatt exhales, shaking his head. “If Ryder wanted you gone, you’d be gone. You know that, right?”
I swallow hard. “Then what’s his problem?”
Wyatt watches me for a beat, then he says:
“Maybe you should be asking yourself why…” He pauses, just long enough. “Why he’s so damn worried about you in the first place.”
I stare at him. I don’t know what to say to that.
For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But then he just dips his head before stepping back and unlocking the side door to let us in.
“Goodnight, Max,” he says as he climbs the stairs to his apartment.
I watch him go, the quiet settling around me, wondering what he meant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SKY IS still dark when I step outside, the last traces of night holding on tight. The air is sharp but warming, the first real sign that the season is changing. It smells like damp earth, the quiet promise of spring carried on the breeze.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. Restlessness sat heavy on my chest, keeping me pinned beneath the sheets, tangled in thoughts I couldn’t quiet. So I got up and took a walk—across the parking lot, out toward the open stretch of road, and I kept walking.
At the motorcycle club, I used to slip out early, before the sun was fully up, before anyone else stirred. It was the only time I could breathe. A stolen moment before the world demanded something from me.
Everything is quiet at this hour, wrapped in the hush before dawn. The highway is empty, just miles of black asphalt stretching in both directions, and I move through the darkness like a ghost, my breath misting in the cold. I have Jake’s hoodie on, Ryder’s jacket. It’s not likethatnight—my desperate flightthrough the woods—but my body remembers anyway. The way the cold sank into my bones. The way my bare legs burned. The way branches clawed at my arms, tearing at me like they wanted to drag me back. How I could’ve died. And yet, I made it.
