Page 10 of Hellbent
“Okay, you wash up,” Jake says to Damian, pushing his chair back. “Max and I will dry.”
“I washed up last time,” complains Damian.
“Fuck off,” says Jake with a laugh, pushing his shoulder as they make their way to the kitchen.
I shuffle in behind them in my oversized socks. Damian starts the hot water and Jake hands me a dish towel. It’s immediately comfortable standing between the two men. They tower over me by at least a foot, and in my oversized coveralls, I feel like a kid tucked between big brothers.
We settle into an easy rhythm. Jake passes dishes, I dry, and Damian teases us both. It reminds me of the early days with Billy.
I was thirteen when I landed in that house—old enough to know how bad it was. We were both foster kids there, crammed in with five others. Dan, the foster dad, drank and raged, andeveryone whispered about the nights he tried to open kids’ doors.
Billy protected me. Four years older, he slept on my bedroom floor when Dan was drunk. When he aged out, I stayed behind, trying to stay small and not get noticed. But the night Dan cracked my door open, I ran—straight to Billy.
By then he’d been out for a while, living with a few guys in a run-down apartment across town, but he talked his roommates into letting me stay. The place was already packed—couches taken, floors full—so it made sense that I share his bed. It was loud and chaotic, and always short on groceries, but it was more of a family than most of us had ever had.
Standing here now, tucked between Jake and Damian, I feel a flicker of that again. The same comfort. The same ease.
When the dishes are done, we drift to the living room. Jake turns on the TV, and I sink into the couch while he and Damian settle in. For the first time in two days, I’m warm, fed, and feeling something close to safe.
I could get used to this. Could be content night after night here, washing dishes and laughing, collapsing in front of the TV. But I know better. While Jake and Damian kick back with the quiet confidence of men who belong here, I have to remember that I’m just the stray who showed up on their doorstep. That I have a future to figure out still. Next steps.
Where I’m going is uncertain, but for now I just try to enjoy not running.
I barely notice when Wyatt comes back into the room, until his presence shifts the air. That tiny ripple of awareness that snaps me back into myself.
Somehow, I’m leaning against Jake’s knee. His arm is brushing mine.
“Ready to go, kid?” Wyatt asks.
His smile is easy, but I see his eyes flick to where Jake’s knee is tucked under my elbow before lifting back to mine.
I sit up abruptly. “Yes—”
I almost saysir. The old habit nearly slips out, a ghost of another life pressing against the back of my throat. Dan made us call him that.
I blink, swallow it down, and hop off the couch.
Jake tosses me a lazy wave. Damian leans back, hazel eyes holding mine for half a second longer than they should. I follow Wyatt to the door, pull on Ryder’s oversized parka, and accept the helmet he holds out.
“Been on a bike before?”
“Yes, sir.”
This time, it slips out before I can stop it.
Outside, the cold slices straight through Ryder’s coat. I climb onto the back of the bike and wrap my arms around Wyatt’s waist. Even through his leather jacket his body is solid—all muscle—and his heat is a comforting contrast to the freezing night air.
When he revs the engine, the growl of the machine fills the silence, drowning out the empty fields stretching into the dark.
The ride back is fast. We bounce over the dirt track, the rush of air biting at my ears and hands. I love this feeling. How your body folds into the motion, how the speed drowns out every thought. I’ve spent years on the back of bikes, and I know how to grip tight and lean into the turns. The engine vibrates through my legs, the wind whipping the ends of my hair, and I tuck in closer, matching his rhythm without thinking, letting myself enjoy the brief sensation of flying.
When we reach the garage, it feels different in the dark. The utter silence all around highlights how isolated the building is—just open fields and an empty highway.
We enter through the side door into a narrow foyer. A staircase rises to the right, and directly ahead, another door leads into the ground floor. Wyatt opens it and flicks on the overhead light. The brightness is jarring after the darkness outside.
He walks me down the hallway to the door of the storage room.
“Get some sleep, kid,” he says, flicking on the light inside. “I’m upstairs if you need me.”
