Page 56 of Hellbent
His eyes narrow, a sudden spark of interest in them that tightens the air between us.
“What makes you say that?” His voice is calm. Too calm.
Shit.
I recognize these names because I’ve seen them on lists like this before—piled on Billy’s desk, stacked with discarded papers, scrawled in his handwriting. They’re fronts. All of them. The club runs money through them.
I scramble, trying to deflect. “There’s just always motorcycles outside that tanning salon. Like, how many bikers are obsessed withgetting the perfect tan?”
For a second, I think I’ve played it off. But Ryder’s brow creases with interest. Like I’ve said something he never thought of.
A slow, steady unease creeps up my spine. I take another sip of whiskey and fight the urge to fill the silence.
The moment drags.
My eyes wander to his forearm—how the muscles move as he swirls his drink, fingers tapping idly against the glass. A longscar runs down it, half-covered by the dragon inked across it, its coiled body twisting with every flex of his hand.
And for one stupid, embarrassing moment, I picture those arms, those hands, braced against a mattress. The dragon stretching and tightening with his strength. With his movement.
Jesus.Nope.
I tear my gaze away, scanning the room like I’m searching for an exit. My eyes land on a framed photo on the shelf—one I’ve noticed before but never asked about.
I seize the lifeline and point to it. “Where was that taken?”
He doesn’t have to glance at the photo to know what I’m talking about. “Don’t remember anymore. That was a good six or seven years ago now.”
I push to my feet, closing the distance between me and the shelf, anything to put space between me and my own damn thoughts. The photo is small, in a simple wood frame.
Ryder, Jake, Damian, and Wyatt stand together, dressed in black military uniforms, in front of a thick scrub of bushes. Their jaws are scraped clean, hair worn short. Ryder in particular looks younger—but harder. There’s no smiling, no arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Just four men standing in formation. A unit.
I shift, and my fingers brush against my thigh. Bare skin.
Heat crawls up my neck as I realize the hoodie has ridden up high, leaving the curve of my legs completely bare beneath it. A flush of embarrassment surges through me, and I tug the hem down sharply, as if that somehow erases the moment.
Behind me, a quiet inhale.
A prickle of awareness skates across my skin.
I keep my eyes on the photo. On Ryder’s close-cropped hair and Damian’s scowl. On Wyatt’s sharp jaw and Jake’s thousand-yard stare. They all look so much younger, but not in the least bit softer. They look harder. Meaner. Tougher. A tight, lethal unit.They’re all impressively strong now, but back then, they were deadly.
“Wyatt was a Marine, right?” I ask.
“Yup. Marine Force Reconnaissance.”
“And Damian?”
“Navy SEAL.”
“Jake?”
“Just a nerd. He was recruited out of MIT.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
I turn, finally, and catch him looking—his gaze dragging up my bare legs before meeting my eyes.
My cheeks warm, but I raise my eyebrows, feigning nonchalance. “And you?”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t looking.
