Page 93 of Hellbent
No one argues.
The others leave a few hours later, one by one.
“It’s gonna be okay, kid,” says Wyatt, pulling me into a reassuring embrace.
Jake presses a kiss to my temple. “This is just temporary,” he murmurs.
Damian grabs my face and kisses me. “Be good,” is all he says.
And then it’s just me and Ryder, alone in his house, with everything sparking between us.
He brings bedding downstairs and starts making up the couch. But when I move to take it, he stops me.
“You’re sleeping upstairs.”
“The couch is fine,” I protest.
His voice drops, firm and final.
“I said upstairs.”
No room for argument. Not tonight.
I climb the stairs slowly, every step landing too loud, and open the door at the far end of the landing.
I’ve never been in Ryder’s bedroom before.
It’s sparsely furnished and clean. The bed is big—king-sized, black sheets, tight corners like a soldier’s cot scaled up. Two pillows, perfectly centered. Not a wrinkle in sight.
There’s a dresser against the wall. A single duffel tucked at its base. His boots lined up with military precision. A handgun holstered near the door.
I drift closer. The top drawer is cracked just enough to tempt me.
Inside: folded undershirts, balled up pairs of socks. A watch. A large knife.
And near the back—a box of condoms, half-full.
My stomach tightens, just a little. A flash of blonde hair cuts across my mind, uninvited. I shove it aside and close the drawer.
On top of the dresser is a small cedar box, square, and worn at the corners. I lift the lid lightly with one finger. Inside, a few trinkets look they hold some meaning. A battered Zippo lighter with an etched emblem I don’t recognize. A heavy coin stamped with Latin I can’t translate. A single dog tag—older than the ones they wear now. A rosary missing half its beads. A single casing from a fired bullet, dark and dented.
I close the lid gently, careful to set it back exactly how I found it. A little flush of guilt rises in my chest at my snooping, but mostly what I feel is curiosity. This is the only thing in the whole room that feels personal.
No books. No keepsakes. No clutter. Not a single trace of a personal life. Just discipline and utility.
And condoms.
How very Ryder.
I move to the bed, pull back the covers, and slide beneath them.
The sheets smell like him—faint spice and clean skin. It floods me. Of all the things that could’ve happened today…I never thought I’d end up here. Not like this.
I lie on my side, eyes on the door, and wait for him to check in. To say something. To break the silence. But he never comes upstairs.
I think about the picture. The bounty. The eyes watching me.
I think about Billy. The senator.
