Chapter 9
Nine
Sienna
Welcome To Hell - Bad Meets Evil
The Bone Yard is a goddamn war zone.
A maze of rusted shipping containers, collapsed factories, and landmines buried beneath the asphalt. Smoke from a dozen burning wrecks curls into the night air, thick and choking, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. It reeks of oil, blood, and bad fucking decisions.
And I’m about to race straight into it.
I adjust the gloves Riot gave me, the leather stiff and worn, scuffed from past races, past kills.
My own gear is a mix of borrowed and salvaged—jean shorts I grabbed from the donation bin, a black tank, and one of Riot’s jackets, heavy on my shoulders, smelling like smoke and something darkly familiar.
My helmet dangles from my fingers, the weight of it settling over me like a goddamn warning.
The Gauntlet isn’t just a race. It’s a spectacle.
The stands surrounding the track are packed, bodies pressed together in the seething, screaming masses.
Syndicate elites lounge in the VIP boxes above, sipping their overpriced liquor, placing their bets, eager for blood.
The rest of the degenerates—gang members, criminals, gamblers, and desperate fucks looking for a thrill—pack the lower levels, shouting for carnage, fists pumping the air.
Overhead, sleek black drones hover, their red recording lights blinking as they stream the event live across the world. Billions are watching.
Waiting.
The racers are lined up, each with their own machine, their own brand of violence.
To my left, a guy with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw grips his handlebars like he’s already imagining wrapping them around someone’s throat. To my right, another racer cracks his knuckles one by one, his engine revving in slow, steady pulses, like a heartbeat waiting to stop.
And then there’s Riot.
He stands beside his bike, casual as ever, smoking a cigarette like this is just another night, another race, another body count waiting to happen. But I know better.
His arms flex beneath the ink-covered skin, every inch of him a walking fucking threat. His tattoos are a map of violence—black and bold, covering every inch of him. His hands, his throat, his chest, his stomach, his back.
Some people wear their sins in their eyes. Riot wears his on his fucking skin.
His racing leathers are undone at the top, his black shirt clinging to the sharp cut of his body, the ridges of muscle shifting beneath the fabric. His boots are scuffed, his gloves fingerless, and when he exhales, the smoke curls around his face, hiding the smirk pulling at his lips.
He looks like the devil, like something made for war.
And I hate that it works for him.
He turns his head, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine, and just for a second, the world shrinks. The crowd fades, the screams dull, the roar of engines turns into a hum beneath my skin.
Then, without a word, he steps toward me.
I expect him to throw out some cocky remark, something smug and infuriating. Instead, he takes the helmet from my hands.
I blink.
He doesn’t say anything as he lifts it, his fingers brushing beneath my chin, adjusting the strap before buckling it.
His hands are steady, confident.
His touch is careful.
My throat tightens. I should pull away. Should shove his hands off me and tell him to fuck off.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in my life, someone is worried about me.
And I don’t know how to feel about it.
He pulls back, exhaling slowly, like he’s holding something back, something dark and lethal. “We’re going to make it out of this,” he mutters, voice rough.
Not a question. A promise.
I lift my chin. “Yeah? And what if we don’t?”
His smirk is slow, dark. “Then I’ll at least make sure you fucking do.”
A slow clap echoes from behind us.
“Touching,” Jace drawls, stepping forward, helmet in hand. “Really. Almost had me tearing up.”
My pulse spikes.
He looks worse than he did last time I saw him. His bruises have deepened, the cut on his cheekbone swollen, the shadow of Riot’s fists still carved into his face.
He looks at me like he wants to bury me six feet under, but guess what? I don’t fucking flinch. If this bastard’s waiting to see me cower, he’s gonna be real fucking disappointed.
Riot doesn’t move either, just exhales another lungful of smoke, his fingers flexing at his sides. But I see the shift, the controlled violence lurking beneath his skin.
Jace tilts his head, grin sharp and mean. “Gonna be real fucking tragic when she’s nothing but bloodstains on the track by the end of the night, Carter. Almost makes me feel bad for her.”
Riot moves, but I react faster. I grab his arm, pressing against him, using my weight to pull him back.
His body is coiled tight, his muscles locked like steel cables but he doesn’t shove me off, doesn’t pull away.
Jace chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s cute. You got yourself a little leash now, Carter?”
Riot’s lips pull back, more snarl than smirk.
I squeeze his arm, voice low. “He’s not fucking worth it.”
He doesn’t speak, but I feel the tension slowly unwind.
Jace smirks, stepping back as he blows me a kiss. “See you on the track, sweetheart.”
I keep my grip firm until he’s gone. Then, and only then, do I release Riot.
He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
I arch a brow, tilting my head just enough to challenge. “You shouldn’t be so fucking easy to bait.”
His smirk lingers, slow and dangerous, but there’s something else behind it now, something darker. His fingers twitch at his side like he’s resisting the urge to touch, to grab, to do something neither of us will come back from.
A loud crackle erupts from the overhead speakers, cutting through the tension like a knife.
“Racers, take your positions. The Bone Yard is set. Countdown begins in thirty seconds.”
The crowd surges, a tidal wave of noise. Cheers, shouts, the hungry roar of thousands of voices demanding blood.
I flick my gaze back to Riot, watching the way his smirk deepens, his dark eyes dragging over me like he’s memorizing something. Like this moment belongs to him.
His voice drops lower, rough and edged with something thick and unspoken. “Get on the bike, Sin.”
For half a second, I consider pushing him just a little more, seeing how far I can go before he snaps. I step forward, closing the small space between us, so close the scent of smoke and leather curls around me. I tilt my chin up, locking eyes with him, my smirk slow and taunting. Defiant. Daring.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” My voice is a purr, smooth, edged with something sharp, something reckless.
Riot doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his dark eyes unreadable, like he’s debating whether to throw me on the back of the bike or pin me against the nearest wall and remind me exactly who’s in charge.
The tension is suffocating, crackling between us like the electricity before a storm.
Then, without another word, I snap my visor down, cutting off his view of my smirk, and swing my leg over the bike.
His grin widens, just a fraction, before he lifts his own helmet, sliding it over his head, the countdown still ticking down over the speakers.
“Five seconds to launch.”
The roar of engines swells, vibrating through my bones, filling my chest.
And just like that, the world narrows.
Four.
Me, Riot, the bike, and the chaos waiting ahead.
Three.
Engines rev.
The air is electric, thick with the scent of gasoline and sweat.
Two.
Riot swings onto the bike, his boot resting against the peg, his fingers drumming against the throttle like he already knows how this ends. I slip my arms around his waist, feeling the flex of his abs beneath my grip. His hand covers mine for a second, squeezing once before gripping the handlebars.
I swallow hard.
One.
The light flashes, and hell is unleashed.
The bike surges forward, my body jerking against Riot’s back as we tear down the track. The wind howls, the first sharp turn coming fast.
A racer to our left swings a chain. It whistles past, missing by inches.
I snarl, clamping my thighs down tighter around him. “Jesus, fuck—”
“Keep your fucking eyes open, Little Stray,” Riot growls.
Another racer tries to cut us off, but Riot jerks the bike sideways, sending them careening into a wrecked semi.
The track is chaos.
A mine detonates to our left, flames swallowing a racer whole.
Jace is behind us, leading his pack, gunning for blood.
My grip tightens.
This isn’t just about winning.
This is about survival.
And the only way out is through.
Riot grips the throttle, the Ducati snarling beneath us as he guns it forward, weaving through the first stretch of the Bone Yard—a sprawling, abandoned industrial district swallowed by rust and decay.
The track is a death trap.
Rusted shipping containers stacked like a collapsing maze. Crumbling factories riddled with sniper nests. Oil spills shimmering like black ice under the floodlights. Rigged explosives buried just deep enough that you won’t see them until it’s too fucking late.
This isn’t just about who’s the fastest.
It’s about who’s still breathing at the end.
The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, barely audible over the roar of engines and the bloodthirsty crowd.
"Welcome to The Bone Yard, ladies and gentlemen! The first true test of The Gauntlet! Let’s see who’s got the guts and who ends up in the dirt!"
A flash of movement to the left.
"Sniper!" I shout.
Riot reacts instantly, veering hard just as a shot cracks through the air, kicking up debris where we’d been a second ago.
"Race just started, and these desperate fucks are already taking shots at us," he growls.
Another gunshot rings out, this one aimed at the racer beside us. The bullet punches through his helmet. His head jerks back violently, his body going limp as his bike swerves out of control and slams into the side of a rusted tanker truck.
The explosion is instant.