Page 60 of Hellbent
His response is low, almost as if he’s speaking to himself.
“Go on back to them, then.”
I stop. “What?”
Ryder leans back, stretching his legs out, tipping his glass slightly toward me. His movements are loose, almost lazy. It occurs to me that he might be drunk.
“Your two men.” He says it lightly, but there’s the slightest flicker of scorn behind it.
I’m about to turn away again and ignore him when he says, “Let me ask you something, Maxwell.”
I stop, pulse kicking hard against my ribs. Then, slowly, I face him again.
“How do you pick which bed to sleep in?” he asks. “Or is it just whoever fucked you last?”
A sharp, electric pulse shoots through me—shock, anger, embarrassment—but I don’t let it show. I won’t.
I hold his gaze, refusing to let him see how deep that landed.
Then, with a breath I don’t quite control, I turn and walk away.
I don’t look back.
But I feel his touch burning my skin the whole way down the hall.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE GARAGE IS quiet today. Damian’s working on a Chevy with a fucked-up suspension, and there are no other cars in. I’m standing at the terminal bay, updating work orders. Wyatt’s gone for the day, out “handling something” and leaving Damian in charge. It’s just the two of us, the stillness broken only by the clink of tools, the soft tap of my keyboard, and the low drone of the radio.
It’s the first time we’ve been alone since that day at the unfinished house—when he fucked me right after Jake. It’s been two weeks of working side by side, flirting playfully and exchanging glances, but Wyatt’s always around at the garage, a silent buffer between us. And I haven’t stepped foot inside Ryder’s house since that night of whiskey and unspoken tension that led to his parting question, laced with malice:Or is it just whoever fucked you last?
But today, Wyatt’s not here. Today, there’s no distraction. It’s just the two of us for the first time, and I don’t know whathappens now.
Jake’s voice echoes in my mind:You don’t have to hold back, baby. I know you want him.
The words hit the same way they did two nights ago, murmured against my skin as Jake pressed me deeper into the mattress. His breath had been warm on my ear, his arm heavy around my waist, keeping me pinned exactly where he wanted me.
The idea of you being with him doesn’t make me jealous. That’s fucking hot.
There was no possessiveness in his voice, just pure heat. Like he got off on the idea. He hadn’t just given me permission, he’d encouraged it.Damian wants you so bad it hurts. You should let him have you.
Knowing that he feels that way twists something inside of me. It’s part thrill, part fear.
No jealousy. No control. Just permission.
The idea that my body, my choices, belong solely to me.
With Billy, my body was his to use and claim—until I stopped wanting to be touched at all.
But now, no one decides for me. No one owns me. I can do what I want. Even if what I want…is Damian.
I shift my weight, refocusing on the screen and trying to ignore his presence—the subtle scrape of metal against metal as he works, the quiet way he exhales when he concentrates. I force my attention to the work order in front of me. The radio has been playing in the background for hours, nothing I’ve paid much attention to, until an unfamiliar guitar riff drifts through the speakers and Damian pushes up from where he’s crouched by the wheel well and whoops, startling me.
“Turn it up!” he calls out.
I jump at the outburst, then shake my head, smiling despite myself. “What is it?”
He exhales sharply, like he’s actually pained, and drags a hand down his face before shaking his head in slow disappointment. “Are you fucking serious?”
