Chapter 6
Six
Riot
No Love - Eminem Ft Lil Wayne
Well, fuck me. I knew she was a fighter, but I didn’t see her taking someone out for me. That was a fucking surprise. A turn-on, if I’m being honest.
But I was almost too fucking late.
A few more minutes, and she wouldn’t be standing here, mouthing off, full of fight and fire. No, she’d be broken, bleeding, used up and discarded like fucking trash in some piss-stained corner of this shithole. That’s how these bastards work. I’ve seen it before. I know their patterns.
And she’s not the first woman they’ve tried this shit with.
But she’s the last.
Because she’s fucking mine. And if any of these motherfuckers are still too goddamn stupid to get that, I’ll carve the message into their fucking skulls.
Sienna Vega, the smart-mouthed, reckless little stray who’d rather bite than beg, didn’t just save herself back there—she saved me.
My fingers curl around her wrist, grip firm but not bruising, as I yank her forward, harder than I need to. She stumbles, just for a second, and suddenly, we’re chest to chest.
Close enough that I can feel the sharp rise and fall of her breath, the way her body tenses against mine.
Close enough that I can smell the sweat and blood clinging to her skin, feel the heat rolling off her like a goddamn furnace, see the defiance still burning in those dark fucking eyes.
Neither of us move.
Her chin tilts up, that sharp little smirk tugging at her lips. “You stink,” she mutters, nose scrunching just slightly. “Should probably hit a shower before you start offending people.”
I huff out a low chuckle, my grip on her wrist tightening just enough to remind her she’s not going anywhere. "That an invitation, Little Stray? ‘Cause you don’t strike me as the kind that minds getting a little dirty.”
Her smirk widens, but her eyes flash with something sharp. “Not with you.”
The rejection should piss me off. Should make me let go, shove her ahead of me, remind her exactly who the fuck she’s dealing with.
Instead, I fucking grin.
Because the thing about Sienna Vega? She doesn’t lie. She’s not taunting me for the sake of it, she means it. And that just means she hasn’t figured it out yet.
I lean in just enough that my breath ghosts over her cheek. “Shame,” I murmur, voice rough, teasing, but laced with something darker. “Bet you’d sound real pretty moaning my name.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, just scoffs.
“Keep dreaming, Carter.”
I fucking knew she’d shut it down. And fuck if that doesn’t make my dick hard anyway.
I don’t give her a chance to fight it. I pull her after me, leading her through the corridor, past the bodies cooling on the floor. She doesn’t resist, but I feel it, the moment she glances back, taking in the wreckage we left behind.
“What about them?” she asks, casually, like she didn’t just stab a man for me.
I don’t even break stride. “The pit rats’ll deal with ‘em.”
She huffs out a breath, something close to a laugh. “Efficient.”
I smirk. “The Gauntlet never sleeps, Little Stray.”
She mutters something under her breath—probably a curse, definitely meant for me—but she doesn’t pull away. Smart girl. Even smarter if she’d stop fighting the inevitable. But fuck if I don’t enjoy watching her try.
As we step through the doors into the open warehouse, and the entire place fucking shifts— The noise dips, not silent, but hushed, the kind of quiet that comes right before a storm.
The men in the warehouse, the same ones who would’ve happily torn her apart an hour ago, smell the blood. Their eyes follow us, dark, hungry, waiting.
I don’t slow.
The Gauntlet doesn’t do second chances. The moment you step onto this world, you’re either dead or you’re a target, and after they find out what went down in that corridor, the price on her head will only get bigger.
Sienna Vega is the fucking target.
She knows it, too.
She doesn’t fight me, doesn’t stumble, but she doesn’t shrink either. She keeps her shoulders squared, head high, mouth curved in that same cocky smirk like she enjoys the attention, like she’s daring them to try something.
The tension snaps. A few men mutter under their breath, some sneer, others shift on their feet like they’re considering whether it’s worth it to get in my way.
I don’t give them time to think about it.
My grip tightens, just enough to send a message, and I cut her a sharp look. “The fuck was that?”
Sienna tilts her head, looking up at me through dark lashes, and smiles.
Fucking smiles.
"Just saying goodnight," she murmurs, all fake sweetness and sharp edges.
I exhale slowly, running my tongue along the inside of my cheek, debating whether I want to throw her over my shoulder or bend her over the nearest crate and remind her who the fuck she’s playing with.
Instead, I pull her closer, lowering my voice. "You wanna tease a pack of starving dogs, Little Stray?" I drag her flush against my side, voice dropping to something only she can hear. "Maybe I should show them who you really belong to."
Her smirk falters for a fraction of a second, just a flicker, but I catch it.
She glares, jerking her arm, but my grip doesn’t budge.
"I don’t belong to anyone, asshole.”
I chuckle, dark and low. "Yeah? Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."
Her jaw tightens, but I don’t give her room to argue. I drag her the rest of the way across the warehouse, past the ones who know better than to interfere, past the ones still watching, and wondering how much more blood I’ll spill to keep her breathing.
They’ll get their answer soon enough.
She’s pissed. I feel it in the tension of her body, the way her steps fight against mine, but she’s moving, because she’s smart enough to know she doesn’t have a choice.
Not if she wants to stay alive.
In The Gauntlet, racers don’t protect their competition. They take them out. The fact that I claimed her—because that’s exactly what I fucking did—means every single bastard in this pit is reevaluating their bets.
And most of them don’t like it.
I feel their stares, hear the murmurs, catch the shift in posture from the ones already calculating how to use this against me.
Sienna?
She doesn’t give a single fuck.
Instead, she lifts her chin, scans the crowd with that sharp, dark-eyed defiance, and—fucking hell—blows a kiss.
Right at what’s left of Jace’s crew.
A few of them jeer, one of them spits, another mutters something I don’t catch, but it doesn’t fucking matter. The message is clear.
She’s playing with fire.
And worse? She’s enjoying it.
My grip tightens, fingers flexing around her wrist, my patience thinning with every smug little glance she throws their way. “You trying to get more of these bastards killed, Little Stray?”
She turns those wicked eyes on me, lashes low, her smirk razor-sharp. “Why? You jealous?”
I stop short and yank her in close. Our bodies nearly collide, heat crackling between us like a live wire. She gasps, just a little, just enough for me to catch it before she smothers it.
She’s reckless. Too mouthy. Too goddamn tempting.
And she’s mine.
The second I put my claim on her, the second I made it clear to every bastard in this pit that touching her meant death, she stopped belonging to herself. She became mine to protect. Mine to ruin. Mine to fucking destroy if I decide I want to.
I flick my gaze over her face, down to the smug twist of her lips, the way her chin tilts up like she isn’t the walking, talking reason I’ll be spilling more blood before the night is over.
She has no fucking idea.
“Don’t fucking test me.” My voice is low, dark, filled with something raw and territorial. “You wanna keep that pretty mouth of yours? Quit running it.”
Her chin lifts, those wild fucking eyes still taunting, still daring. “I don’t know, Riot. Seems to me like you like my mouth just fine.”
I exhale slow, sharp, biting back the instinct to do something I won’t come back from. My knuckles flex, the itch of violence crawling under my skin, demanding an outlet. I should let it go, keep walking, ignore the way she’s pushing me, pushing every goddamn button I have.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean in, just enough to make her breath hitch, just enough to feel the way her body tenses against mine.
“Try me, Sin.” My voice is gravel, a warning, a promise. “Keep testing me and see how that ends for you.”
Her smirk widens, smug, full of trouble, like she’s already planning her next move. Like she wants to see just how far she can push before I snap.
I bite down a curse and jerk her forward again, my grip tightening like I could anchor her to me through sheer force alone.
She fucking laughs, the sound full of smug satisfaction. “Thought so.”
God help me, I might actually kill her.
Or fuck her.
Maybe both.
I don’t let go of her wrist until we reach my door, shoving it open before pulling her inside. She stumbles forward a step but doesn’t fall, just straightens and sweeps her gaze over the space like she’s assessing a fucking battlefield.
It’s small, barely big enough for a cot shoved against the wall, a rusted metal table, and a single shelf holding ammo, smokes, and spare bike parts. A dim bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows against cracked concrete walls.
Not much, but it’s mine.
And now, it’s hers too.
For however long this lasts.
My gaze flicks to the shelf, to the one thing that doesn’t quite belong among the bullets and engine grease—a battered copy of Blood Meridian.
The cover is worn, corners frayed, pages stained with oil and ash.
I found it years ago in a dead man’s saddlebags, torn up and shoved between stacks of cash and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
Figured if it was worth keeping over the money, it had to be worth something.
I was right.