Chapter 5
Five
Sienna
No Mercy - DeathbyRomy
I should be grateful. I should be kissing the ground for still being alive.
Instead, I want to break something.
Adrenaline is still thrumming through my veins, my heart hammering against my ribs like it doesn’t know the race is over. My knuckles ache from how tight I was gripping Riot’s jacket, my muscles locked up from the fight for survival. I know I should be dead.
But I’m not.
I made it through the first round of The Gauntlet, and surprise, surprise, half the pit wants to see me fucking buried for it.
Jace.
His words slither through my mind like a disease. The first round might be over, but The Gauntlet never sleeps, sweetheart.
That wasn’t just a threat. It was a goddamn promise.
He’s not done with me. And I doubt he’s the only one already planning how to put me in the ground.
And then there’s Riot.
That cocky, arrogant, downright psychotic asshole.
It should’ve been satisfying as hell to watch him lay Jace the fuck out, to see the smug bastard crumple like a cheap chair.
But it wasn’t.
Because Riot didn’t do it for me.
He did it because he wanted to. Because someone made a comment he didn’t like. Because he felt like it.
Because Riot Carter doesn’t follow rules—he makes them.
And just like that, without me asking, without me wanting it, I’ve been dragged into his world, his war, his fucking orbit.
I don’t owe him shit. I don’t fucking need him.
But damn it all to hell, for someone so unhinged… he’s disgustingly, and unfairly fucking hot.
But in The Gauntlet, no one leaves. That’s the unspoken rule.
The second you step into this world, you either ride out a champion or get carried out in a body bag.
There’s no quitting, no walking away. You’re in until you win, you die, or the Syndicate gets bored and decides you’re not worth keeping around.
Lucky me.
Right now? I’m their shiny new plaything.
“Vega.”
The rough voice yanks me out of my thoughts. My body moves before my brain catches up, muscles tensing, fists curling tight as I snap toward the sound.
The grizzled old bastard standing in front of me barely blinks, unimpressed. One of The Gauntlet’s organizers—face like worn-out leather, eyes dull and cold like he’s seen too many men die to care anymore.
“Let’s go,” he grunts. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
I snort, shaking off the lingering adrenaline still clinging to my bones. “Quarters?” I echo, arching a brow. “What, you got a fucking turn-down service too? Maybe some spa robes? Room service?”
His mouth twitches into something that’s not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’ve got pillow mints and everything.”
I let out a sharp laugh, dry and mean. “Oh, good. Was worried this was gonna be a shithole.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just turns on his heel toward the warehouse like my existence is nothing more than another inconvenience. “Get moving.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, annoyance grinding against my ribs. I should keep running my mouth, but my ribs hurt like a bitch, I’m exhausted, and right now, survival outranks pride.
For now.
I roll my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Fine. Lead the way.”
The walk through the compound is a tour through the graveyard of what used to be civilization—rusted scaffolding, skeletal remains of buildings that once mattered.
Busted bikes and burned-out cars litter the pavement like the corpses of past riders who weren’t fast enough, lucky enough, or ruthless enough to survive.
Neon signs flicker overhead, half the letters dead, leaving behind broken, meaningless words.
SUN _ET MO_EL.
Sunset Motel.
Yeah. Real fucking ironic.
The air is thick with oil, sweat, and blood, so much fucking blood. It clings to the asphalt, to the walls, to the people who’ve been here long enough to forget what clean smells like.
The world didn’t go to hell in one big explosion.
It rotted from the inside out. 2025 was just the year the cracks in the foundation got too big to ignore.
Governments crumbled, crushed under their own weight, their own greed.
Cities burned, wars broke out, and the rich sat back, watching the whole thing unravel like a fucking spectator sport.
And when the last pieces of so-called civilization finally collapsed? The Syndicate was already waiting to take the reins. They didn’t just rise from the ashes, they burned what was left and built their own kingdom on the bones.
They run the streets. They run the black-market trades. They run The Gauntlet.
And us?
We’re just here for their entertainment.
Inside the warehouse, the air is hot and stale. Cots are lined up along the walls, some separated by nothing more than makeshift barriers of stacked crates or hanging tarps. The lucky ones have weapons propped up beside their bunks, a silent warning to stay the fuck away.
But not everyone sleeps out in the open.
Off to the side, half-hidden behind reinforced steel doors and marked-off corridors, are actual rooms. Not much bigger than storage closets, but in this place?
It might as well be a penthouse. Those belong to the Syndicate’s favorites—their top racers, their biggest earners, the ones who’ve managed to claw their way high enough to get scraps of privilege.
It’s clear what it means. Power isn’t just earned in The Gauntlet—it’s rewarded. And right now? I’m at the bottom of the fucking food chain.
The organizer gestures to an empty cot in the farthest corner. “That’s you.”
I toss my jacket onto the mattress, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from the race. The leather is ruined, stiff with dried blood, torn at the seams, and barely holding together.
Just like me.
The guy who brought me here stops just before leaving, jerking his chin toward the community room.
“Bin of donated clothes is over there. Might find something that fits.” His tone is flat, bored, like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Like I’m just another name on a list that won’t be here for long.
I raise a brow. “What, no designer options?”
He snorts. “Yeah, we’re fresh out of Gucci. You want a shower kit, talk to Maggie—older broad, red bandana, runs the supply stash by the east wall.” He steps back toward the exit, barely sparing me a glance. “Not that it matters. Doubt you’ll be around long enough to need anything.”
And with that, he’s gone.
I exhale slowly, rolling my tongue against the inside of my cheek, shoving down the urge to flip him off as he disappears through the exit. Not gonna be around long enough to need supplies? Cute. I’ll be sure to haunt his ass when I prove him wrong.
Turning toward the clothes bin, I dig through the pile of discarded, grease-stained scraps. Most of it is torn, useless, or straight-up garbage. Fitting, since that’s exactly how they see me.
I pull out a white tank top, thin enough to be nearly see-through.
A black lace bra, delicate but surprisingly intact.
A pair of cut-off jean shorts, frayed and stained with oil.
They’re a little too short for my liking, but it’s not like I have a ton of options.
I also grab a pair of black leggings for later, along with some mix-matched socks that don’t even come close to forming a pair.
Not exactly designer, but I’ll manage.
Clothes in hand, I make my way toward the east wall, where I spot Maggie.
She’s exactly the type of woman I’d expect to be running the shower supplies in a place like this—mid-fifties, weathered skin, thick arms, mean eyes, and a cigarette dangling from her lips.
A red bandana is tied over graying, unwashed hair, and she watches me approach like she’s already decided I’m a pain in her ass.
“First race kid, huh?” she mutters, flicking the ash off her cigarette.
I nod, glancing at the stacks of plastic bins and crates behind her, filled with whatever the racers haven’t stolen yet.
She exhales smoke and grabs a small bundle from behind the table, tossing it at me. “Here. Soap, shampoo, toothbrush, whatever. Try not to lose it. You only get one.”
I catch it, eyeing the travel-sized bottles and cheap bar of soap. “What, no loofah?”
She gives me a blank look. “You want me to smack you?”
I smirk. “I’d like to see you try.”
Maggie grunts, shaking her head, and takes a long drag of her cigarette before waving me off. “Go wash the blood off, smartass. You stink.”
I turn, stuffing the supplies into my arms, then freeze.
I feel it before I see it.
That slow, heavy weight of being watched. Of being hunted.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles, my muscles locking up for half a second before I force myself to keep moving. Casual. Unbothered. Like I don’t feel his stare cutting through the chaos of the warehouse, pinning me in place.
Then I see him.
Riot.
He’s across the room, leaning against his bike like he’s got all the time in the world, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, watching. Not the fights breaking out near the entrance. Not the mechanics tuning up their death traps.
Me.
A slow chill rolls down my spine, but it isn’t fear. It’s something heavier, something darker.
I hold his stare, refusing to be the first to break.
His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite anything—but there’s something smug in his expression, something knowing. Like he already knew I’d look his way.
I roll my eyes, turn on my heel, and walk toward the showers, ignoring the way his gaze lingers on me the entire way.
The corridor is damp, rusted, the air thick with humidity and mildew.
No stalls, just half-broken partitions, exposed pipes, and a row of hanging sheets that barely count as privacy.
I step inside, hooking my clothes over the rusted pipe beside me. The second I twist the handle, the pipes groan like they’re about to burst, and a stream of hot water blasts down on me, stinging against my raw skin.
I inhale sharply, closing my eyes as the heat sinks into me, washing away the blood and grime.