Page 50 of Hellbent
“C’mon.” Jake steps up onto the unfinished porch and extends a hand to me, pulling me up onto the concrete slab.
There’s a brand-new door that needs unlocking, and inside, the first floor is partially framed with sheets of plywood for walls. The flooring is down, smooth but unfinished, the scent of lumber still detectable in the air.
Damian comes up behind me, his arm slipping around my waist, solid and warm against me. I take in the unfinished walls, the empty spaces waiting to be filled. The house is still finding its shape—just like us. Just like me.
“Picture it,” Jake says, walking ahead of us and pointing. “Over here’s the kitchen. Living room’s there. Dining room in the back.”
“Bedrooms upstairs,” Damian murmurs teasingly.
Jake shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a sawhorse. “It’s got potential, huh?”
“Yeah.” I nod, impressed. “It’s amazing. Are you building this on your own?”
“No,” answers Damian. “Ryder and Wyatt help, too. We took a break over the winter, but now that things are thawing, we’ll start up again soon. Hopefully have it done before the end of the year.”
“Incredible.” I glance around again, taking it in. The effort, the planning…it’s so much more than just walls and a roof. It’s a future. A home. I wonder what that feels like, to build something of your own. To know where you belong. “You really think it'll be done this year?”
Jake nods. “If we actually get our asses in gear, yeah.”
“Which means probably not,” Damian cuts in. “But…you’ll have to stick around to find out.”
My heart skips, warmth spreading in my chest with a flicker of something dangerous—hope. A year from now, will I still be here, standing in this house when it’s done? Or will I be somewhere else, running again, chasing a future I still can’t picture?
And what about them? Am I just passing through, or could I really belong here? They’ve built something here, something solid. I wonder what it would be like to stay and be a part of it.
“Can you picture yourself here?” Damian asks, reading my mind. “In our finished house?”
Security, a dependable future…those things have never been in the cards for me. Even as a kid, I knew better than to dream about stability. I learned early that nothing lasts, that the second you get comfortable, life rips it away. Maybe that’s why I can’t picture it now. Because wanting it feels dangerous.
I shove the thought down, plastering on an easy smile. “What about the upstairs?” I ask, deflecting.
Jake points to a large gap in the plywood ceiling. “It exists. The framework is up. No stairs yet, though.”
“Don’t need ‘em,” says Damian, his arm slipping from my side as he moves away. “I keep trying to tell him.”
He walks under the gap and launches himself upright, a powerful jump. His hand skims the edge of the wood and misses, and he lands with a laugh—pretty gracefully for someone over six feet and packed with muscle.
Jake laughs louder, waits for Damian to get out of the way, and takes a run for it. He leaps into the air and grabs the edge of the plywood ceiling in an impressive display of athleticism.
Damian lets out a low whistle. “Nice work. Show-off.”
Lifting one arm up, then the next, Jake manages to drag himself up until he’s looking down at us through the cut-out from the second floor.
Damian turns to me. “Okay, I’m going to show you the easy way to do this.” He steps up to the framed wall beneath the cut-out, gripping the wooden beams like a ladder. His movements are quick and practiced, muscles flexing as he pulls himself higher. When he’s close enough, he reaches and grabs the ledge of the second floor, hoisting himself through the opening with a final push.
“C’mon,” he says, once he’s up, looking down at me with Jake beside him.
Oh hell.
I walk over to the wall, plant my hands on the first beam, and push myself up. My muscles strain, burning. It’s harder than they made it look, but working in the garage has paid off. By the time I haul myself onto the second floor, my breath is heaving, but I’m exhilarated.
Jake beams at me with approval. “Hey, Maxwell! That was amazing.”
“Didn’t think you had it in you, Finch,” says Damian with an ear-to-ear grin.
I take a theatrical bow, satisfaction buzzing under my skin. I did it. I kept up. More than that—I feel strong.
The wind is stronger up here, and the second floor is little more than a rough outline—raw beams and open framework, the bare bones of what will one day be rooms. Jake gestures around, tipping his head toward the four corners. “Bedroom here, bathroom there. This will probably be a guest bedroom because Damian’s going to create his lair in the basement…”
