Chapter 8
Eight
Riot
Violence - Grimes, i_o, Rezz
Sparks fly from the grinder, the scent of metal shavings and gasoline is thick in the pit as Sienna tightens a bolt near the rear suspension. I lean against a rusted crate, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from my lips, watching.
She knows what she’s doing. I figured she’d at least be able to change her own damn oil, maybe tighten a chain, but this? This is more than just basic maintenance. She’s tweaking the alignment, adjusting the throttle response, modifying the fucking footpegs for better balance.
And fuck if that doesn’t do something to me.
More than it fucking should.
Not just because she’s good at it, but because it’s hot watching her. A woman who doesn’t just ride but knows her way around a machine like it’s in her blood. A woman who doesn’t take shit, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t wait for someone else to handle it.
She’s different. Tough in a way that has nothing to do with strength and everything to do with survival. She shouldn’t have to be, but fuck if it doesn’t make her even more tempting.
Stubborn. Reckless. Deadly.
And fucking mine.
I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders, feeling the dull ache from working on the bike all goddamn night settle deep in my bones. The rest of the crew tapped out hours ago, I should’ve too. Should’ve dragged her stubborn ass back to my quarters, made her rest, made her stop.
But she wasn’t fucking done.
And instead of telling her to sit her ass down like I should’ve, I lit another cigarette, leaned against the crate, and let her keep working.
Now, she’s straddling the seat, reaching forward to adjust the brake tension, her fingers steady and precise. But the second she shifts, her body locks up, a flicker of something tight crossing her face, small and quick.
But not quick enough.
I fucking catch it.
The subtle tremor in her hand, the way she rolls her shoulders too carefully—like every inch of her fucking ribs is screaming.
“Sin.”
She ignores me, shifting again, jaw tight.
I push off the crate. “Sin.”
Nothing.
The moment she tries to adjust again, I move.
Stepping behind her, I grab the wrench from her fingers, tossing it onto the workbench. She barely has time to protest before my hands are on her waist, steady, firm, sliding up to her ribs.
She flinches and tries to jerk away but I don’t let her.
“Don’t.” My voice is low, a warning. “You don’t hide that shit from me.”
Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Her head tilts back slightly, and she glares at me from beneath her lashes, dark and defiant. “I’m fine.”
I tighten my grip just enough for her to know I’m not buying her bullshit. “You’re a shit liar, Little Stray.”
She grits her teeth. “And you’re a shit nurse. Now get your hands off me.”
I don’t. Instead, I slide one up, gripping her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look at me.
"You wanna lie to them? Fine. You wanna act like you’re untouchable? Go ahead. But not with me. Never, with me. You hear me?"
Her lips part, pulse kicking at the base of her throat. But she doesn’t argue.
I hold her there for a beat longer, letting my thumb drag slow along her bottom lip, just enough to feel the softness, just enough to tempt myself with something I have no business wanting.
Her lips.
Fuck, I hate how much I already know I’d like them. Hate that the idea of them wrapped around something other than a smart-ass remark has already crossed my mind more than once.
I exhale sharply, jaw ticking, and let go before I do something I won’t stop. Then, without warning, I grab her by the waist and lift her off the bike, setting her down on her feet.
She stumbles slightly, irritation flashing across her face. "What the hell—"
"That’s it for the night," I cut her off, grabbing my cigarette from the edge of the workbench. "You need rest."
She scoffs, shifting her weight, eyes sparking with challenge. “Yeah? And what good is rest if the bike’s in pieces? You planning to push it across the finish line?”
I smirk, flicking the ash onto the ground. “Bike’ll be fine. Crew will finish it in the morning.” My voice is steady, sure, because it’s the truth. “You, on the other hand? You won’t be if you keep pushing like this.”
She mutters something under her breath, probably another insult, but I don’t bite.
Just grab my jacket off the back of the chair, shrugging it on as I move toward the showers.
I let out a sharp whistle, and a second later, Taz lifts her head from where she’s been sprawled on the floor, stretching lazily before trotting over.
“Let’s go,” I say, giving Sin a pointed look. “I’m not telling you again.”
She follows, not because I told her to, but because as bad as she wants to fight me, she knows I’m right.
The walk through the warehouse is quieter now, most of the racers either passed out drunk or busy sharpening their knives for tomorrow.
But not all of them. I can feel the weight of their eyes, watching from the dim corners, tracking our every move.
The tension clings to the air, thick and suffocating, an unspoken threat hanging between every rusted beam and flickering light.
Tomorrow, we race The Bone Yard.
Heard from Bishop earlier—Jace is back on the roster. Not surprising. Despite the beating I gave him, he’s not down yet. He was already gunning for us before, but now? After what we did to his crew? He’ll be out for blood.
Not just him, either.
Every bastard in this warehouse wants us dead. The bounty on my head was already high, but now with Sin riding with me? The House will make damn sure there’s a nice fat payday for whoever puts us in the ground first.
And they’ll fucking try.
But if they want her, they have to come through me.
And I’ll gut every single one of them before I let that happen.
We stop by the room first. Sin grabs whatever soap and shit she needs, and I do the same, stuffing a towel under my arm before leading her toward the showers. Taz trails behind us, her claws clicking against the concrete, silent but ever-present.
The showers are nearly empty when we get there, just two guys near the sinks, shooting the shit.
They barely glance our way until I step inside, my presence enough to pull their attention.
One of them shifts uneasily, his gaze flicking between me and Sin before he mutters something to his buddy.
Then, like they know better than to push their luck, they head for the exit without another word.
I don’t even have to tell them to leave, they just know.
Good.
The second the door swings shut behind them, I twist the lock.
Sin drops her shit on the bench, kicking off her boots, and peeling off her socks.
She barely spares me a glance as she strips down to her bra and panties, completely unfazed, like I’m not standing right fucking here.
My fingers flex, jaw clenching as she turns her back to me and walks toward a stall, pulling the curtain halfway before starting up the water.
She’s comfortable. Too comfortable.
And I should look away.
But I don’t.
I stand there, towel draped around my neck, watching her.
Watching as she unhooks her bra, as she slips out of those tiny fucking panties and hangs them over the divider.
My gaze tracks every inch of bare skin, every scar, every bruise, every dark inked line that curves along her hips, her ribs, her back.
Fuck.
I swallow, hard.
Something in my chest tightens, something I don’t fucking have a name for, and I force myself to turn away, exhaling slow through my nose.
I tug my shirt over my head, dropping it onto the bench, unbutton my jeans and shove them down.
The water from her stall beats against the tile, the sound mixing with the distant hum of engines and muffled voices from the pit.
I step into my own stall, letting the hot spray hit my skin, rolling my shoulders under the pressure.
My body aches from working all day, from the fights, from the weight of the shit I’ve done and the blood I’ve spilled.
But none of that comes close to the ache that’s been clawing at my insides since the moment I threw her on the back of my bike.
She shouldn’t have made it this far.
Should’ve been just another name on the list of the dead, another body the pit rats scrape off the track. But she’s not. She’s still standing. Still breathing. Still fucking testing me.
And now?
She’s in my fucking shower.
Temptation wrapped in attitude, with a mouth that never stops running, always lipping off, always pushing. Makes me wonder what other sounds it could make if I shut her up the right way.
I exhale hard, dragging a hand over my face before rinsing off, forcing my thoughts somewhere that won’t end with me doing something I can’t take back.
By the time I step out of the shower, steam curling around my skin, she’s already standing at the bench, and just the sight of her stop me in my fucking tracks.
Fuck.
Standing there in nothing but my shirt, bare legs, and bare everything else.
I know she’s got nothing on under it.
No barrier between her skin and mine.
Fuck.
A jolt of heat fires straight to my cock, a possessive twist settling low in my gut. The only thing touching her right now is me—my shirt, my scent. My fucking claim.
She shifts, arms crossing, her smirk sharp and knowing. She caught me looking.
I drag a towel over my face, forcing my pulse to steady. “You’re not walking back like that.”
She shrugs, wringing out her clothes. “Not my fault your shirts are comfortable.”
I huff a short laugh, shaking my head as I walk to the bench. Grabbing a clean pair of my boxers, I toss them at her. “Put ‘em on.”
She catches them, glancing down before arching a brow. “Seriously?”
I just stare.
She huffs. “Jesus, you really are a fucking control freak.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
Muttering under her breath, she steps into them anyway, yanking the waistband up with an exaggerated tug, making a whole fucking show out of it, just to push my buttons. Just to test me.
I smirk, stepping closer, voice low and rough. “Careful, Little Stray. You keep playing with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”
Her lips curve, eyes flashing with something reckless. “Maybe I like the heat.”
Tempting little problem.
I exhale, locking down the urge to push her against the lockers, to see just how much heat she can handle. Instead, I step past her, unlocking the door, whistling for Taz. “Let’s go.”
She scoffs but follows, falling into step beside me as we make our way back to the room.
And fuck me if I don’t already know sleep’s the last thing I’m getting tonight.
I glance over at her, jaw tightening. “I’m exactly like them.
” Sin’s brow lifts, but I don’t give her a chance to twist it into one of her smart-ass remarks.
“You shouldn’t get confused, Little Stray.
I’m a killer. A bad fucking guy. I deserve to be here just as much as every other piece of shit out there. ”
She studies me quietly. Too quietly.
I exhale slowly, running a hand over my face before resting my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
She doesn’t push. Just watches.
Waiting.
I should leave it at that. Should let her think whatever the fuck she wants.
But for some goddamn reason, I don’t.
My gaze flicks to the far wall, unfocused.
“You ever heard of Steel Row?” I ask, my voice low.
Sin frowns, shifting slightly. “The gang?”
I smirk, humorlessly. “That’s what the media called us.
A gang. A bunch of low life street rats with too much firepower and not enough sense.
The truth?” I tilt my head, stretching out my sore shoulders.
“We owned the city. More than the cops. More than the syndicates. We ran the streets. And the man at the top?” I tap my chest. “That was my old man.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything.
I let the words settle.
“My old man wasn’t just the leader of Steel Row.
He was the kind of bastard people told horror stories about.
Cold. Ruthless. Built an empire off the bones of anyone dumb enough to cross him.
And when I was old enough to hold a gun?
” I exhale sharply. “He put one in my hand and told me to prove I was his son.”
Sin’s breath hitches. It’s small, barely there but I fucking hear it.
I lean back in the chair, dragging a hand through my hair. “That’s what I come from. That’s who raised me. And the second I got old enough to know better?” My lips curl. “I made damn sure he regretted it.”
She’s still quiet, but I can feel her eyes on me, searching for something.
“Steel Row ran the city, but the old man ran Steel Row. And the only way to take out a man like that?” I flick a piece of lint from my knee, voice even. “You make sure there’s no one left to take his place.”
A beat of silence.
Sin’s voice is quiet when she finally speaks. “So, what? You took them all out?”
I meet her gaze, unwavering. “Every last one.”
She doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch.
And fuck if that doesn’t do something to me.
I smirk, leaning forward again, resting my elbows on my knees. “That’s how I got here. When you piss off the right people, they don’t just let you walk away. And The Gauntlet?” My smirk widens, sharp, dark. “It’s a convenient way to make sure a problem takes care of itself.”
Sin’s quiet again for a long moment.
Then she shifts, absently running her fingers through Taz’s fur. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Damn right, I am.
I exhale sharply, gaze locking on the door. “Get some sleep, Sin.”
She watches me for another few seconds, like she’s debating pushing for more. Then, finally, she sighs, rolling onto her side.
I stay in the chair, arms crossed, watching the door.
Because tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I’ll be killing again.
And this time?
I might actually fucking enjoy it.