Chapter 5 #2
My mind should be focused on survival. On Jace, on the races, on the fact that everyone in this place wants me dead.
But instead, I think about Riot.
The way his voice wrapped around that stupid fucking nickname—Little Stray. The way he smirked after throwing Jace to the ground like he was nothing. The way he looked at me just now, like he was already figuring out what he was gonna do with me.
I grit my teeth and scrub harder, ripping the thoughts from my head. He doesn’t matter. He’s just a racer, a threat, an asshole who thinks he owns the road. I won’t be here long enough for any of this to matter.
Except… I don’t have a bike. No way out.
Yet.
Tomorrow, I start looking. There’s a scrapyard near the pits, a graveyard of wrecked machines—bikes that didn’t make it, parts stripped, bodies left to rot. If I want a shot at winning, at getting the hell out of here, I need a bike.
And I’ll find one.
Even if it’s busted, even if I have to tear it down to the bolts and rebuild it from the ground up with nothing but spit and spite.
Because without one? I’m just waiting to die.
By the time I finish my shower, the warehouse is quieter, but the tension still lingers—thick, suffocating, pressing in like the whole place is waiting for something to snap.
I sling my towel around my neck, pulling my damp hair over one shoulder, and start toward my cot. My boots scuff against the concrete, the only sound in the space—until it’s not.
I feel it before I hear it. The shift. The weight of another presence behind me, too close, too quiet.
A half-second too late, I turn—
A hand clamps around my wrist, another grabs my shoulder, and I’m slammed against the rusted lockers hard enough to rattle my skull.
Jace’s men. Three of them. Same ones who were circling earlier.
“Took your time, sweetheart,” the first one sneers, fingers digging into my arm.
I don’t hesitate.
I drive my knee into his gut, twisting out of his grip as he chokes on a curse. The second one lunges but I duck, grabbing the towel around my neck and snapping it across his face, hard. The sharp crack echoes through the corridor, and he stumbles back, hands flying to his eyes with a pained snarl.
The third is faster.
His fist slams into my ribs, white-hot pain exploding through my side as the air rips from my lungs. My body jerks, instinct fighting to stay standing, but the first one recovers and grabs me by the hair, yanking my head back so hard my scalp burns.
“Gotta say,” he murmurs, breath hot against my skin.. “Jace was real interested in breaking you in himself.”
I don’t react.
Not at first.
Just breathe through the pain, forcing my body to relax, waiting.
He chuckles, mistaking my silence for something it’s not. “But he ain’t here, is he? Not after Carter fucking ruined him. Heard it took four guys to drag his sorry ass out of the pit after Riot was done with him. Poor bastard can barely stand, let alone—”
I spit blood in his face, and he reels back with a roar, wiping at his eyes, rage twisting his features.
Then, just as he raises his hand to hit me, the room shifts again.
The air goes thick, heavy.
Because we’re not alone anymore. A shadow moves.
The next second, his skull caves in.
Blood splashes across the lockers as Riot’s brass-knuckled fist smashes into the first guy’s temple, bone cracking like wet gravel. The bastard drops instantly, collapsing into a heap, his limbs twitching before going still.
The second doesn’t even get a chance to react before Riot snatches him by the hair, yanking his head back.
The brass glints under the dim light as he drives the metal-clad fist into the guy’s face—once, twice, three times—each hit louder, wetter, more final.
By the time Riot lets go, the body slumps against the rusted lockers, blood smearing down the dented metal as he crumples to the floor.
The last one makes a last minute decision and goes for Riot.
I see it before Riot does—see the shift in the bastard’s stance, the way his fingers tighten around the broken bottle in his hand, the flash of something desperate in his bloodshot eyes.
He’s gonna take a shot.
Riot’s back is turned.
I move.
My fingers close around the knife tucked into the back of my waistband, pulling it free in one smooth motion.
The guy lunges.
I beat him to it.
One step.
I slam the blade into his side, right between the ribs.
He chokes out a strangled breath, body seizing as the knife buries deep. His grip loosens, the bottle slipping from his fingers, shattering uselessly at my feet.
I twist the blade, feeling the resistance give, feeling him go slack.
His breath stutters, blood bubbling at his lips as his knees give out.
I lean in close, voice sickly sweet. "What’s wrong, sweetheart? Thought you were gonna break me in?"
Then I rip the knife free, and he drops like the worthless sack of shit he is.
Silence.
I stand there, chest heaving, blood dripping down my cheek, adrenaline pounding in my skull. The air is thick with copper and sweat, the scent of violence clinging to my skin. My fingers twitch around the handle of the knife, but there’s no one left to use it on.
Riot turns, eyes dropping to the body at my feet. Then to the blade still tight in my fist.
Slowly, his lips curl.
"Didn’t know you cared, Little Stray."
Riot steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s already decided how this ends. The brass on his knuckles is slick with blood, his other hand flexing at his side, still loose, still in control. Like he barely broke a sweat while slaughtering the men who tried to take me apart.
I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and snort. "Yeah, well, don’t get your dick hard over it. Just didn’t feel like watching you get shanked because you weren’t paying attention."
His smirk stretches, slow and taunting. "That so?"
I roll my shoulders, ignoring the sting of bruises already forming. "Mmhm. Can’t have the so-called king of The Gauntlet dropping dead before I get a shot at ruining your life properly."
He chuckles, low and amused, like I just said something cute. "Bold words from someone still alive because of me."
I tilt my head, leveling him with a glare. "That how you see it?"
"That’s how it is." His eyes flick down to the knife still in my grip. "Unless, of course, you wanna prove me wrong. You gonna use that, or just wave it around like a brat throwing a tantrum?"
I twirl the blade between my fingers, shifting my stance. "Keep running your mouth, Carter, and I might."
He laughs, deep, dark, and entertained. "Oh, sweetheart, if you pull a knife on me, you better not hesitate. ‘Cause you won’t get a second chance."
"Who said I’d need one?"
That grin sharpens, wicked and cocky. He steps even closer, close enough that I can smell the sweat and blood on his skin. His fingers brush my wrist, barely touching, but just enough to make it a threat. "You really think you could take me out?"
I lift my chin. "Wouldn’t be the first time I put a bastard in the ground."
His tongue drags over his teeth, eyes glinting with something dark. "Maybe. But I ain’t just any bastard, Vega."
I smirk, flicking the knife shut with a snap. "That’s what they all say… right before they choke on their own blood."
Riot chuckles, low and dark, heat curling beneath the amusement. "Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you like playing with fire."
I step around him, refusing to break eye contact as I brush past. "I don’t play, Riot."
His voice follows me, smug and fucking certain. "Oh, you will. But you’ll do it from the back of my bike. From this moment forward, you ride with me, and you stay with me. That’s not a request, it’s the way it fucking is."
Not a question.
Not an offer.
A goddamn command. Like my choices don’t fucking matter.
My spine locks up, rage twisting through me, sharp and hot, burning like a live wire under my skin. I snort, wiping the blood from my lip with the back of my hand. "Oh? That so? Funny, 'cause I don't remember asking for a babysitter."
Riot’s smirk is slow, and dangerous. Like he was waiting for me to push back, like he enjoys watching me fight it.
"You don’t have a bike," he drawls, amusement lacing his tone. "Last I checked, it was scattered across the track in a thousand fucking pieces. And The Gauntlet doesn’t keep dead weight around for long."
My jaw tightens. Fuck, he’s right about that, which of course only pisses me off even more.
"I'll find a bike." The words snap out of me, sharp and defiant. "I'll build one if I have to. I don’t need you."
Riot tilts his head, his smirk widening just a fraction. "You sure about that, Little Stray?"
My stomach twists. I fucking hate that name. I hate the way it sends a shiver down my spine when he says it, like he’s branding me with it.
But more than that? I hate that, for once, I might have to admit I can’t do this alone. Not if I actually want to walk out of the shit Kane’s men tossed me into.
Because I don’t have a bike. I don’t have a way to fight, to run, to survive. And in this place, being alone is the same as being dead.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, forcing myself to think past the fury clawing up my throat. I hate him. But I hate being helpless more.
Slowly, I drag in a breath, leveling him with a glare. "Fine." It tastes like poison.
Riot watches me, letting the silence stretch, then nods once, like he just won something.
His smirk deepens, dark and knowing. "Smart girl."
I glare, my chest still burning. "Go to hell."
"Already there, Little Stray."
I roll my shoulders, already planning how the second I don’t need him anymore, I’m gone.
But until then?
I guess I’m riding with Riot Carter.