Chapter 1
One
Sienna
BLACKOUT – AViVA
You ever wake up and just know it’s going to be a shit day?
Like, the kind of day where you stub your toe, spill coffee on your only clean shirt, and maybe get sentenced to death by an underground crime syndicate for a murder you didn’t commit?
Yeah. That kind of day.
The first thing I notice when I wake up is that my face fucking hurts.
The second thing? I can’t move my hands.
Great.
I exhale slowly through my nose, ignoring the throbbing in my skull as I blink up at the ceiling—if you can even call it that. It's just rusted-out beams, cracked metal, and a single flickering light that makes the shadows crawl.
The place smells like motor oil, mildew, and despair.
So, a warehouse.
Which means I’m likely still in Noxhaven.
And for now, that means I’m still alive.
I shift and plastic digs into my wrists, biting into raw skin.
Zip ties. Not cuffs. Cheap. Disposable. Whoever tied me up wasn’t planning on keeping me around for long.
I flex my fingers, testing the restraint, and grit my teeth when pain lances through my ribs. Bruised. Maybe cracked. My lip stings, and there’s the telltale iron taste of blood coating my tongue.
Some people wake up to coffee and pancakes. But not me. No, of course I wake up bound, bleeding, and pissed the fuck off in some fucking grimy ass warehouse.
And I know why. I know exactly what they’re blaming me for—the murder of Alaric Kane’s son, heir to the most powerful crime syndicate in Noxhaven. A killing I didn’t commit, but that doesn’t matter.
The Syndicate doesn’t do trials. They don’t ask questions. They decide, they punish, and they make examples out of people like me.
I’ve done a lot of shit to survive, things I won’t pretend I regret. But this?
This wasn’t me. Not this time.
A door creaks open.
I go still. Predators notice prey when it twitches, and I’ll be damned if I give this bastard the satisfaction.
Footsteps echo against the concrete, slow and deliberate. Someone’s taking their time, dragging this out like it’s a fucking game. I don’t bother looking. I already know who it is.
Kane’s dog.
His name doesn’t matter. Never has. What matters is that he works for Alaric Kane—the same Alaric Kane whose son is dead. The same one I’m being framed for killing.
So, yeah. Definitely a shit day.
“Awake, are we?” His voice is smooth, practiced, and full of fake politeness.
I don’t answer. Just blink up at him, expression blank, boredom etched into every line of my face.
He crouches down in front of me, tipping my chin up with two fingers. His nails are manicured. Soft hands. A man who lets others do his dirty work.
Pussy.
I don’t flinch, don’t jerk away. He wants a reaction, and I don’t give free shit to bastards like him.
“Where the fuck am I?” My voice comes out rough, like I gargled gravel, but there’s still bite behind it.
He smiles. One of those condescending, ‘you’re already dead’ smiles, like he thinks I’m weak enough to break under it.
“The starting line.”
My stomach knots, but I keep my expression smooth. Fuck.
The Gauntlet.
It’s worse than I thought.
I was expecting a quick execution, maybe a bullet to the back of the head. Something clean. Not this. Not a public execution disguised as a race. They want a show. They want me to bleed for them.
“You made quite a mess for yourself, sweetheart,” Kane’s dog continues, voice smooth as rotting silk. “Killing the boss’s son? Bold move.”
I tilt my head, arching a brow and keeping my tone sweet. “And yet, here I am, still breathing. So either Kane’s getting soft, or you idiots know I didn’t do it.”
The slap comes fast. My head snaps to the side, the sting sharp and bright.
"Watch your fucking mouth."
I drag my tongue over my teeth, tasting blood and smirk. Then I spit it right in his face.
His expression barely flickers, but his jaw tightens. That’s all the warning I get before his fist slams into my ribs, sharp and brutal—a punch meant to break something.
Pain explodes through my side, but I just laugh, because fuck him, and fuck Kane.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience. "It doesn’t matter whether you did it or not. Kane wants blood, and yours is convenient."
Of course. Truth doesn’t mean shit in Noxhaven.
Kane doesn’t want justice. He wants a fucking show.
And I’m the perfect opening act.
I already know how this works. They don’t want to dig too deep, because the moment they do, they’ll see the truth—Kane killed his own son. Probably because the bastard was a liability. Or maybe Kane just got bored and needed a fresh corpse to keep the fear alive.
But a father killing his own blood? That’s bad for business.
So they need a scapegoat. And lucky me—I fit the part.
A criminal past. A messy reputation. A bad habit of pissing off the wrong people.
They needed someone to take the fall.
And I was already standing too close to the edge.
Kane’s dog stands, adjusting the cuffs of his overpriced suit like this is just another business deal.
He’s tall, built like a man who lets others do his dirty work, but the scars along his knuckles say he enjoys getting his hands bloody when it suits him.
Dark hair slicked back, sharp jaw, dead eyes—the kind of bastard who smiles when he kills.
He smooths a hand down his tie, barely glancing at me. "Get her ready."
Then he turns and walks out, leaving the door wide open behind him.
A beat later, two men step in—built like walls, faces blank, the Syndicate’s usual brand of disposable muscle. They grab me, yank me to my feet, and cut the zip ties with a quick flick of a knife.
I don’t resist.
Not yet.
Not until I know where the fuck I’m running.
The moment the doors open, I know I’m in hell.
The roar of the crowd hits like a fucking freight train, a wall of sound and violence slamming into my skull.
Neon strobes flicker overhead, casting blood-red light over thousands of degenerates packed into scaffolding and makeshift bleachers.
Some are drunk, some are high, but all of them are starving for carnage.
It reeks of oil, sweat, and dirty money.
I keep my chin up, expression blank, even as pain lances through my ribs with every goddamn step. I’ve heard stories about The Gauntlet—Noxhaven’s death circuit, where losing means dying and winning means selling your soul to the Syndicate.
I just never thought I’d end up here.
The guards shove me forward. My side screams, but I don’t stumble. Won’t give them the satisfaction.
“Gear up.”
My gaze flicks to the lineup of sportbikes at the starting line—sleek, deadly machines, their engines purring like caged beasts, built for speed and carnage.
But they don’t take me to any of those.
No, that would be too easy.
Instead, they drag me to a battered 2006 Yamaha YZF-R6, a sportbike that’s seen more wrecks than victories.
Mismatched Pirelli tires, one barely clinging to the tread.
A cracked double-bubble windscreen, spiderweb fractures distorting the neon glare.
The exhaust pipe is rigged with makeshift heat shielding, but one good hit and it’ll blow like a cheap grenade.
Custom fairings—one side missing, the other scarred from past crashes.
It’s a fucking death trap.
But the real kicker?
The weapon mods are stripped.
No front-mounted spikes. No oil slick release. No reinforced frame or axle guards.
Every other racer here has their own signature mods—spinning blades hidden in wheel hubs, collapsible spikes designed to shred tires at 120 mph, high-beam disorienters, and rear-mounted caltrop dispensers that turn the track into a minefield.
Me? I’ve got a busted gas tank and an engine held together with zip ties and bad decisions.
The message is clear.
They aren’t just throwing me to the wolves. They’re fucking snapping my legs first.
Laughter ripples through the crowd. I stare at the bike, my blood roaring in my ears. Then I turn to the nearest handler and smile
“Guess you’re all scared of me, huh?”
He snorts, eyes raking over me, slow and leering.
"Scared? Of you?" He chuckles, stepping closer, his body leaking of cockiness. "Nah, sweetheart. Just wondering what a tight little thing like you is even doing here."
His grin widens, all teeth and filth.
"Ain't like you belong on a bike."
Then his hand grabs a handful of my ass, squeezing like he fucking owns it.
Or maybe it’s my tit—I don’t know because the second he touches me, my body moves on its own.
I swing.
Fast. Brutal.
Bone meets bone.
His head snaps to the side, his laugh turning into a choked grunt. Blood splatters across his teeth, his knees buckling before he drops.
The pit erupts in shouts and laughter, half of them entertained, the other half waiting to see just how bad this is about to get.
The guards lunge too fucking slow.
I move first snatching the gun off the handler I dropped, flicking the safety off in the same breath, while my other hand rips the sidearm straight off his buddy’s belt. My ribs scream, my body protests, but I don’t flinch.
Because pain doesn’t fucking matter.
Not when I’ve got a gun in each hand and a room full of bastards underestimating me.
I aim one right between the handler’s bloodied face, the other at the skull of the idiot still reaching for me.
Not shaking. Not hesitating.
"Touch me again," I purr, "and I’ll put a bullet through your fucking hand. Or your head. Depends on how hormonal I’m feeling."
The pit goes still.
The laughter dies, the tension so thick I can taste it.
I smirk, shifting my weight like I have all the time in the goddamn world. Like I’m just debating which one of them eats a bullet first.
“Go on, boys.” I tilt my head, cocking both guns. “Test me.”
I cock the hammer, aiming between the handler’s eyes.
For a second, just a second, I think I’ve won.
Then, something cold and sharp presses under my chin.
A knife.
And the man holding it?
I know who he is before I even look.
Everyone does.
Riot Carter is The Gauntlet’s golden boy, the undefeated king of the track, the one-man wrecking crew who kills with precision and rides like the devil himself built his machine.
And right now, he has a knife pressed under my chin.
The blade is cold, razor-sharp, biting into my skin just enough to warn, but not enough to break.
Yet.
He's tall. Over six feet of raw power, built like a streetfighter, like the violence of this world shaped him with its bare hands. His grip is steady, unshakable like he’s done this a thousand times before. Maybe he has.
Dark hair, tousled like he’s just ripped his helmet off. His face is all angles and arrogance, with a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a mouth that looks like it’s never smiled without cruelty.
But it’s his eyes that make my stomach clench.
Pale blue. Cold as steel. They flick over me slowly, assessing, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth breaking or just discarding.
Tattooed knuckles grip the knife, veins prominent, hands rough from years of racing, fighting, and surviving. His leather jacket is open, the ink covering his chest shifting with every controlled breath.
He’s close. Too fucking close.
The scent of oil, leather, and something dark and masculine clings to him.
He smells like danger, like gasoline right before a spark. A killer behind handlebars. A legend in racing leathers. And he’s looking at me like he already owns me.
His voice is low, gravel-rough, laced with quiet dominance. "Get on the fucking bike, Little Stray. Or I’ll put you down before the race even starts."