Page 6 of Hellbent
Of all people, it had to be him.
Considering what I just imagined about him, I would have preferred literally anyone else.
“Hey,” I say, aiming for casual.
He turns, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. The image from my fantasy is too fresh, too accurate—broad shoulders, tattooed arms, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that seem to see straight through me. My cheeks heat.
I need to get a grip.
“Morning,” he says. His gaze sweeps over me, and I shift, newly aware of my bare legs and the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear—especially after what I just did.
“Is Jake around?” I ask, just for something to say. Jake feels like a safe topic.
“He’s at work.” Ryder dries his hands with a dish towel and leans back against the counter. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah. Really well.” Between the lingering effects of the sedative, the sheer exhaustion of my escape, and the silence in this house, I can’t even remember a time I slept quite so deeply.
He nods once, then gestures toward the coffee pot. “Want some?”
“Please.”
He pulls a mug from the cabinet, pours, and hands it to me. His sleeves are pushed up just far enough to reveal the ink on his forearms, and I try not to stare. I take the cup with both hands, grateful for the distraction, letting the heat seep into my fingers.
“Wyatt has a job for you,” he says, getting straight to the point. “If you want it.”
I blink. “A job?”
“We run a garage a few miles down. Could use someone to handle the admin. Until you figure things out. Wyatt’s set up a bed in the back room. It’s not much, but it’s a place to lay your head.”
My heart soars. Just like that, he’s offering me a job and a place to stay. It almost seems too good to be true.
“For real?” I ask, too fast. “That’s...that would be amazing. Thank you.”
His eyes flick over the dress again. “Wyatt or Damian might have something you can wear once we get to the shop. It won’t fit great.”
“I’ll take anything warmer than this,” I say, glancing down.
He gives a small nod. “Finish your coffee. I’ll take you over.”
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug, savoring the warmth. This small hope that I can make it out here feels almost unreal. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel entirely lost.
I climb into the truck beside Ryder, drowning in one of his coats—a big, army-green parka warm with the scent of pine, clean soap, and…him. Either the man emits pure pheromones, or this jacket has magic woven into the lining, because I want to bury my face in it and inhale like it could get me high. Instead, I hide my hands in the sleeves and stare out the window, hoping he can’t see the way my pulse is thudding in my throat.
He heads toward the road, but turns off onto a dirt track that runs beside it, half-hidden behind a line of brush.
We bounce along it in silence, and I try to focus on the view outside the window—fields and more fields—feigning indifference to the six-and-a-half-foot bearded god beside me.
But it’s impossible.
His presence assaults my senses. The scent of him, the inked knuckles gripping the wheel, the way his thighs stretch his jeans tight. He’s older than me, at least mid-thirties, and exudes a kind of silent dominance. No effort to charm, no need to fill the silence. He hasn’t said a word since we got in the truck.
Not cold, exactly. Just…impossible to read. I wish I could ignore him half as easily as he ignores me.
The memory of my bathroom fantasy is still too fresh in my mind when, five minutes later, the truck rattles onto a gravel lot in front of a long, low building. I jump out quickly, desperate to clear my head.
The building is a cement block with a sign out front that readsLeathernecks Auto. Half a dozen cars are parked outside, but other than a distant farmhouse, the place stands alone, facing an empty road.
“You get a lot of customers here?” I ask.
