Chapter 7
Seven
Sienna
Knife Under My Pillow - Maggie Lindermann
I wake up to pain.
It’s the first thing I register—the deep, sharp ache in my muscles, the dull throb of bruises blooming across my ribs, the sting of open scrapes on my knuckles. Everything fucking hurts.
The second thing I register is warmth, and it takes me all of thirty seconds to realize it’s not mine.
Something heavy is sprawled across my stomach, radiating heat like a goddamn furnace.
The dim light flickers as I blink my eyes allowing them time to adjust, muscles tensing—until I realize it’s just Taz.
The Pitbull is curled up against me, her big, blocky head resting on my hip like she’s decided I’m hers now.
I huff out a quiet breath, smirking. Figures. The meanest bastard in this place has a dog that supposedly hates everyone—except me. And if last night was anything to go by, that pisses Riot off more than anything.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, then I feel it.
A stare.
My body reacts before my brain catches up, a sharp jolt of awareness shooting down my spine as my gaze snaps toward the open doorway.
Riot.
Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, cigarette between his lips, watching me.
Just fucking watching.
I prop myself up on my elbows, forcing down the fresh wave of pain rolling through me. “You watching me sleep, Carter? That’s fucking creepy.”
His smirk is slow, and sharp. “You breathe loud.”
I scoff, stretching just enough to test my limits, wincing when the ache in my ribs tightens. “What? Expecting to find a corpse?”
Riot exhales smoke, watching me like he’s still deciding if saving me was worth the trouble. “Would’ve been less of a headache.”
Motherfucker.
I grit my teeth, ignoring the way his voice slides down my spine like oil over an open flame. I sit up fully, biting back a groan, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
Taz barely stirs, still pressed against me like she’s claimed me as her own personal pillow. Riot doesn’t move either. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink. Just watches.
I glare. “You gonna stand there all day, or you got something to say?”
He finally pushes off the doorframe, flicking ash onto the floor, and that’s when I actually take him in.
He’s shirtless.
The dim light casts shadows over every cut of muscle, lean but powerful, carved from years of violence and control.
His entire body is inked—black and gray designs crawling up his throat, bleeding down his chest, wrapping his ribs, covering his arms. His hands, too.
Even his knuckles. A full fucking canvas of sharp lines, skulls, barbed wire, script I can’t read, and symbols that look more like warnings than decoration.
There’s no blank skin, no softness, no place untouched by ink or scar tissue.
And of course, because the universe hates me, he looks good.
Really fucking good.
Annoyingly good.
I drag my eyes away, pissed off at myself, but before I can get a word out, another figure steps up beside him.
Some guy, taller than most, wearing a leather vest over bare arms, inked just like Riot but with none of the same weight.
His stance is easy, like he belongs, but the second he looks over Riot’s shoulder—at me—his expression shifts.
I go rigid, suddenly realizing I’m sitting there in nothing but my bra, the lower half of my body still covered by Taz and the thin blanket draped over Riot’s bed.
His gaze lingers too long, and Riot notices.
The slap comes fast, sharp, the back of Riot’s hand cracking against the guy’s jaw with enough force to send him staggering. He doesn’t say shit, just straightens, rubbing at his face while Riot exhales slowly, flicking his cigarette to the floor.
“Try that shit again,” Riot mutters, voice low, and dark, "and I’ll rip your fucking eyes out and hang ‘em off my handlebars."
The guy doesn’t argue, just nods stiffly, backing off, and disappearing down the hall.
Riot turns back to me like nothing happened. “Get dressed. We have shit to do.”
I arch a brow, arms crossed. “You know, you got a real bad habit of thinking you get to tell me what to do.”
Riot takes a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose as his dark gaze pins me in place. Then, in that same cold, calculated tone, he murmurs, “That’s because I do.”
I huff a laugh, dry and sharp. “Cocky bastard.”
His head tilts, dark eyes gleaming. “Get dressed, Sin.” His voice dips, low and steady, dangerous in a way that makes something twist in my gut. “Don’t fucking make me say it again.”
A flicker of irritation spikes through me. Not just at his tone, but at the fact that, without thinking, I move.
I don’t like it. I don’t like that he expects me to listen, or that some part of me already knows he won’t let me say no. But I shove the sheets back, standing too fast, and pain rips through my side.
The wince is small, quick. But not quick enough.
I try to smother it, to keep my face blank, but Riot catches it.
Of course he does. His sharp gaze sweeps over me, honing in on the way I move—too stiff, too controlled, like every breath is a battle I refuse to lose.
Like my ribs aren’t screaming with every fucking shift.
"Where?"
I blink. "Where what?"
He flicks the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot as he closes the space between us. His eyes flick over me, assessing, scanning for whatever the fuck he’s looking for.
I hold my ground, tilting my chin. "What, you playing doctor now?"
He doesn’t answer, just reaches out, fingers brushing my side—too light, too careful. The moment they graze a particularly sore spot, I tense. His jaw flexes, his whole demeanor shifting in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
“Who?”
The word is quiet, flat. But somehow harder than if he’d shouted it.
I hate the way my pulse skips. Hate the way his voice sinks into my bones like a warning. Like a goddamn promise.
I force my expression into something unreadable and pull back just enough to break contact. I shrug. “Kane’s men. They weren’t exactly gentle when they dragged me here.”
His eyes flicker and I see it—the rage, the calculation. The fucking storm brewing in his head.
Then he turns and grabs something off the nearby crate. A bottle of whiskey, a clean rag, and a roll of bandages.
I scoff. “What, you gonna pour me a drink?”
His smirk is humorless. “I’m gonna clean your wounds before they get infected.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”
Riot doesn’t respond, just stands there, unmoving, staring me down like he’s daring me to argue. Like he already knows I won’t win.
I exhale sharply, crossing my arms under my chest.
His gaze drops. Not quick. Not subtle.
The heat in his eyes burns through me, tracing over the bruises along my ribs, the cuts marring my skin, the ink etched into my body. His lips press together, jaw ticking, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
He just kneels.
Right in front of me.
And fuck, something about it makes my breath catch.
I don’t know what I expected from him, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
Men don’t kneel for me.
They don’t take care of me.
I don’t exist to them beyond what they can take. What they can break.
But Riot? He’s here, on his knees, cleaning my wounds like he fucking cares.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I shift, uncomfortable, masking it with a scoff. “Didn’t peg you as the caretaker type.”
His smirk is slow and sharp. “You don’t know shit about me, Little Stray.”
I roll my eyes, wincing as he presses a whiskey-soaked rag to a cut on my ribs. “I know you like bossing people around.”
He tilts his head, gaze flicking up to mine. “And you like mouthing off. You always this fucking difficult?”
I smirk through the sting. “You always this fucking controlling?”
His lips tug at the corner, but the amusement in his eyes is sharp. “Yeah.”
I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. “Must be exhausting, trying to own everything in your goddamn radius.”
Riot hums, dragging the rag lower, wiping away dried blood. “Not everything, just what’s mine.”
I freeze.
He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t give me a second to argue before he moves again, pressing his fingers into my side, testing the damage.
I hiss, my body going rigid.
His jaw locks. “Two ribs are broken. Maybe three.”
I snort. “Maybe?”
He gives me a look. “Well I don’t have a fucking X-ray, Little Stray.”
I clench my jaw, glaring at the top of his head. “You don’t have to keep calling me that.”
“Sure I do.” He reaches for the bandages. “Fits you.”
I huff a breath, irritated. “How’s that?”
Riot wraps the fabric around my ribs, pulling it snug, careful but firm. His fingers graze my skin, warm, and rough, sending a ripple of something I don’t have time to name through me.
“You bite,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “scratch, survive on scraps. But you’ve got no pack. No home.” His eyes flick to mine, burning, unreadable. “You’re just trying to outrun the next set of teeth.”
The words sink into me, clawing their way through my ribs.
I hate that they feel true.
I force a scoff. “Damn. You always this poetic?”
His smirk is slow, dangerous. “You always this deflective?” I narrow my eyes, but before I can fire back, he nods toward my ink. “What’s the story?”
I blink. “What?”
His gaze drags over my tattoos, some old, some newer, all black ink and jagged edges. His fingers brush a cluster of small tally marks along my ribcage, and I stiffen.
“What’s it mean?”
I swallow. “Why the fuck do you care, Reaper?”
Riot watches me for a beat, like he’s trying to peel my fucking skull open and read the pages inside.
The nickname hangs between us—Reaper. It wasn’t something he picked. It was earned. Given. Whispered first, then screamed. On the track, when the lights go green and the gates drop, he doesn’t just race, he hunts. Rivals don’t survive him, they vanish. Crashed. Burned. Gone.
They say if you see the Reaper in your mirror, it's already too late.
He shrugs. “Guess I don’t.”
Liar.