Page 55 of Hellbent
“What are you doing here?” I ask stupidly.
“Ilivehere,” he says dryly. “How about you?”
I suck in a breath. Why do I always feel like an absolute tool around this man? “I was going to step out.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Without pants?”
I lift my chin. “I just need some air.”
His lips twitch—almost a smile. “Suit yourself.”
I don’t bother responding. I just turn and head outside.
The porch is cold. The wind cuts through me, whips at my legs, but I welcome it, breathing in deep. The air is thick with the scent of rain, and a low rumble rolls across the sky. Seconds later, a crack of thunder splits the air, and the sky opens up.
Rain sheets down in an instant, slanting at an angle that sends drops ricocheting onto the porch, stinging against my skin like tiny bullets. I take one last inhale, letting the cold bite into me, then step back inside.
I should go to bed.
But I don’t.
Instead, I pause at the living room, lingering. Maybe it’s because sleep still feels impossible. Or maybe it’s because Ryder is still sitting there, alone.
“Back so soon?” he murmurs, irony laced in his tone.
Something tightens low in my stomach, forbidden and unwelcome. I know I shouldn’t feel that subtle pull, like gravity rearranging itself whenever he’s near. But I can’t resist it.
I give him a wry smile, not sure what to say or do.
But he does.
He nudges the bottle toward me. “Have a drink.”
I hesitate for half a second. Then—fuck it.
I drop onto the couch beside him. With a quiet sigh, he pushes to his feet, takes a highball glass out of the cabinet, and passes it to me. I pour and take a sip. The whiskey burns, warm and biting, cutting through the discomfort that’s been clinging to me since I woke up.
As he sits back down, he watches me, dark eyes raking over me in that that slow way of his. Like he sees too much.
Wyatt’s voice echoes in my head:Maybe you should be asking yourself why he’s so damn worried about you in the first place.
But he isn’t worried about me, I remind myself. He’s worried about what I might bring crashing down on them.
I take another sip, letting the burn wash through me, and my gaze lands on the coffee table.
A notebook lies open in front of him, a printed list resting on top of it. A pen beside it, like he’s been taking notes. The list catches my eye. Something about the names.
Ironclad Auto Detail
Buckner’s Smokehouse
Hudson’s Tire & Lube
Golden Glow Tanning Salon
I know these names.
“What are you doing?” I ask before thinking. “Looking for fake businesses?”
