Chapter 4
Four
Riot
Guess I just fucked up everyone's night.
We cross the line together. The crowd erupts—some cheering, most screaming in outrage. The sound of it is a fucking storm, a riot of disbelief and fury as the realization sets in.
They lost. I won.
And most importantly, she’s still breathing.
I roll the throttle back, the Ducati growling beneath me as I bring us to a hard stop.
Sienna’s arms are still locked around my waist, her breath ragged against my back, her fingers curled into my jacket like she hasn’t realized the race is over.
I feel every inch of her, the heat of her body, the tension in her grip.
Her heart is still racing, matching mine beat for beat.
For a second—just a single fucking second—I don’t move.
Then I kill the engine.
Sienna slowly peels herself off me, swinging her leg over the seat, boots hitting the pavement. She’s unsteady, but she doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate. She just stands there, chest rising and falling, covered in sweat, blood, and adrenaline. I glance sideways, watching her.
She should be dead. Burned out, broken, another smear of blood on the track.
But she’s not.
And now? Now, she’s a goddamn problem.
I barely swing off the bike before I hear the storm coming.
Jace is running too hot, an engine past redline—seconds from blowing, but too stupid to shut down.
The problem with Jace is he doesn’t know when to quit. He’s the kind of rider who pushes too hard, and ignores the warning signs until everything blows up in his face. The kind of arrogance that makes a man reckless and will one day get him killed.
He’s young, hungry, and too goddamn cocky for his own good.
Tall, lean, built like a fighter rather than a racer—long limbs, wiry muscle, quick reflexes but no discipline.
He’s got a cocky-ass smirk that makes you want to break his teeth, and eyes that are always looking for the next fight.
His blond hair’s a mess—either from his helmet or another night drinking himself stupid, usually both.
He’s covered in ink, most of it cheap shit that doesn’t mean anything, the kind of tattoos punks get to make themselves look tougher than they really are.
The only marks that actually matter are the scars, souvenirs from wrecks he barely walked away from. And that’s the thing about Jace—he’s survived a lot. He should’ve been dead at least a dozen times over, but he’s too stubborn, or too fucking lucky to stay down.
Jace wasn’t born into the circuit. He forced his way in, dragging himself up through the ranks of illegal street races until he finally got a shot at The Gauntlet.
He took out a few nobodies, made enough noise to get noticed, and started running his mouth like he was someone important.
The kind of guy who has just enough skill to be dangerous but not enough to back it up when it counts.
But the real issue, is that he wants to be me.
Jace has spent the last two years chasing my shadow, taking whatever scraps of attention he can get, acting like he’s already king of the fucking pit.
He’s fast, brutal, and willing to kill for a win, but he’s not smart about it.
He doesn’t play the long game. He fights messy, sloppy. And worst of all?
He makes it personal.
We weren’t always enemies. The first few times we met, he kept his head down, respected the system, and knew his place. Then he started winning and running his fucking mouth. I ignored him at first. Let him bark and make an idiot of himself, but he pushed too hard.
Stepped over a line he shouldn’t have.
A year ago, he tried to take me out—not on the track, but off it. No fair fight. No challenge. Just a cheap, back-alley setup with a knife in the dark.
Didn’t want to prove he was better, just wanted me gone. Rigged a deal, lured me in, and had three guys waiting. Thought numbers would do what skill never could.
He was wrong.
I walked away and he spent a month pissing blood.
Since then, he’s been a bitter, grudge-holding little shit. Always scheming, always waiting for his moment.
But no matter how hard he tries, he’s still second place.
And now?
Now, he’s fucking livid. Because I just threw a wrench into his entire world.
Because I put Sienna on my bike. Because I won, and she lived, and every single person who bet on her dying just lost a lot of fucking money.
And for Jace? That’s enough reason to go to war.
The bastard shoves through the pit, eyes wild, rage twisting his features. He’s still got blood on his temple from the crash he barely walked away from, but the idiot doesn’t know when to quit.
"What the fuck was that?" he snarls, storming toward us. "You fucking cheated!"
I don’t react. Not yet.
"That bitch should be fucking dead! You can’t put her on your bike! That ain’t how this shit works!" Jace’s voice is raw, furious, ripping through the pit like a gunshot. He shoves forward, shoulders tense, chest heaving, the veins in his neck bulging like he’s about to explode.
I swing my leg over the bike, slow and deliberate, like I’ve got all the time in the world. The pit is a riot of noise, tension thick enough to choke on, but I don’t rush.
I never rush.
I yank off my gloves, tossing them onto the seat before reaching up and unfastening my helmet.
The second I pull it off, the air is thick with sweat, exhaust, and the scent of burning rubber.
I run a hand through my hair, shaking out the stiffness from the ride, then reach into my jacket, fingers curling around my pack of smokes.
I tap one out, placing it between my lips, taking my time as I flick my lighter open with my thumb. The flame catches, the ember glowing red-hot as I inhale deep, the first drag sinking into my lungs like a slow burn.
Only then do I exhale through my nose, smoke curling into the night air as I finally look at Jace.
I watch him like he’s a goddamn joke. Because he is.
"That right?" I cock my head, flicking ash onto the pavement. "And who the fuck decided that, Jace? You?"
"We all fucking know the rules—"
I cut him off with a slow, amused smirk. "The Gauntlet doesn’t have rules, dumbass."
Jace’s jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. "That’s not the fucking point! You can’t just—"
"I can do whatever the fuck I want." The words are calm, steady, absolute and the pit knows it.
Jace knows it too, but he’s too far gone to stop himself. He’s got an audience. He’s got a bruised ego, a busted-up bike, and a shattered fucking pride. He needs to win something tonight.
Too bad it won’t be this.
He takes a step closer, practically vibrating with rage. "You think you can just put some rookie bitch on your bike and pretend she belongs here? She ain’t shit! She should’ve died out there, and you fucking know it!"
I feel Sienna shift beside me, but she doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move, but Jace notices. His lips curl, and his eyes flick toward her.
"What?" Jace lets out a sharp laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it. It’s venom, pure and raw, the kind of sound a man makes before he does something stupid. "You got nothing to say now, sweetheart? No smart-ass remark? No attitude?"
Sienna finally moves.
She tilts her head, eyes dark and unreadable, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. "Sorry, I just got distracted, was trying to figure out how you made it across the finish line with my boot so far up your ass."
A few laughs snap through the pit, sharp and quick, from the ones too stupid to hide their amusement.
I shouldn’t give a fuck. But I do. Because seeing her mouth off, standing her ground, completely unfazed by Jace’s bullshit? That shit shouldn’t be hot.
But fuck, it is.
Watching her stare him down, fearless and sharp-tongued, makes my dick hard. Her defiance is a goddamn spectacle—reckless, sharp, and completely unearned. Except when it’s aimed at me.
Then? It’s a fucking headache.
Jace’s face twists, his jaw locking so tight I swear I hear his teeth grind. His knuckles crack as he clenches his fists, breathing heavily through his nose like a bull ready to charge. The fury in his eyes is different now—darker, meaner, the kind that doesn’t stop at a broken nose.
He steps closer, voice dropping to something low, and sick crawling under the skin.
"The first round might be over, but The Gauntlet never sleeps, sweetheart.
" Jace leans in just slightly, his tone shifting, something hungry, twisted, and fucking vile curling around the edges.
"You should watch your back. Might pay you a little visit when you least expect it. You know… welcome you properly."
I go still.
I know exactly what the fuck he’s hinting at. And if he thinks for one second I’m letting that happen, he’s already got one foot in the grave.
Jace’s hand twitches, fingers itching to grab her, shove her, to put his filthy fucking hands where they don’t belong.
I don’t think. I move.
Because no one—no one—touches what’s mine.
Sienna Vega? That stubborn, reckless, smart-mouthed little stray?
She belonged to me the second she clung to me like I was the only thing keeping her alive.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
The second his fingers touch her skin, I drop him.
The cigarette dangles from my lips, the ember glowing red-hot as my fist collides with his face, knuckles cracking against bone, the impact ripping through the pit like a goddamn earthquake.
Jace’s head snaps back. His body crumples before his brain even catches up and the entire pit fucking loses it.
Gasps. Shouts and a few sharp, eager laughs.
Jace hits the pavement hard, blood splattering as his head bounces off the concrete. His body twitches, his hands scrambling for balance, his eyes wide and glassy as his mind tries to process what the fuck just happened.
I take a slow drag, the burn settling deep in my lungs, smoke curling around my face as I crouch beside him.
Jace groans, blood smeared across his jaw.
Behind me, his crew shifts—pissed off, and ready to step in. One of them inches forward, another cracking his knuckles like he actually thinks he’s gonna do something.
I raise a hand, slowly. A silent warning.
They freeze.
Because they know.
Push me, and they end up just like Jace—spitting blood and eating pavement.
He groans again, as he lays below me, dazed and wrecked. I exhale slowly, blowing a thick stream of smoke right into his swollen face. Then I flick the butt at him, the smoldering end bouncing off his cheek, leaving a faint ember streak in the sweat and grime.
"Try that shit again, Jace, and I’ll put you in the fucking ground… permanently."
He glares up at me, blood dripping from his busted nose, teeth clenched like he’s debating whether he’s got the balls to say something.
He doesn’t.
I shift, standing to my full height, rolling the tension out of my shoulders like I’m just getting fucking started. I drag my gaze over the rest of the pit, slow as hell, making sure every single one of these bastards knows exactly what the fuck will happen if they step out of line.
"Anybody else got a fucking problem?"
Silence.
The organizers exchange glances, muttering like they think they actually get a fucking vote in this.
They don’t.
One of them finally nods. That’s all it takes. It’s fucking settled.
Nothing in The Gauntlet’s rules says I can’t race with her.
They don’t like it. I don’t give a single fuck.
The pit is still tense, charged, a goddamn powder keg waiting to blow.
But the decision is made.
And if any of these motherfuckers want to test me on it, they’ll be leaving in a body bag.
None of them are dumb enough to challenge me. Not now.
Not when it comes to her.
I step back, tilting my head to the side until my neck pops, the sharp crack cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. My knuckles still sting from Jace’s face.
I flick my gaze toward Sienna, expecting something—shock, gratitude, maybe even a little fucking common sense.
I should know better by now.
She just stands there, watching me, shoulders squared, chin up, dark eyes burning with that same goddamn defiance that should’ve been broken by now.
No fear. No thanks.
Just that stubborn, reckless, fight-me-if-you-fucking-dare energy that makes my blood run hot.
I run my tongue over my teeth, my grin slow, and dark—all teeth and bad intentions.
"You got something to say, Little Stray? Or you just gonna stand there looking at me like you wanna bite me?"
Nothing.
Not a damn word.
She just grabs the edge of her helmet and yanks it off, her long, dark waves tumbling free, damp with sweat, a few strands clinging to the curve of her neck. She drags a hand through the mess, fingers raking roughly, shoulders squared like she doesn’t feel the weight of every set of eyes on her.
Like she doesn’t give a single fuck that half the pit wants her dead.
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I just ripped the entire goddamn pit apart for her. But I see everything.
The sharp cut of her jaw, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way her lips press together like she’s swallowing something smug. Even covered in dust, blood, and sweat, she still looks like she fucking belongs here.
Then she turns her back on me.
And yeah, I watch her go.
Long strides, lean muscle wrapped in ripped denim and a half-ruined tank top clinging to her like a second skin. She moves like she owns the place, like she didn’t just cheat death, and become the biggest fucking target in this arena.
Like she didn’t just become mine.
And that?
That really pisses me the fuck off.
Because she’s got a mouth that makes my blood heat, an attitude that’s a goddamn fire hazard, and a way of making me want to wreck her and worship her in the same fucking breath.
And the worst part?
She fucking knows it.