Chapter 10
Ten
Riot
Troublemaker - Olly Murs, Flor Rida
It’s been three fucking days since The Bone Yard, and I still see blood every time I close my goddamn eyes.
The garage reeks of scorched metal, exhaust, and sweat.
Our bike—torn apart and waiting for resurrection—sits front and center like a corpse we’re trying to breathe life back into.
Bishop’s buried in engine parts, cursing about some valve issue.
Luca’s grinding something too loud and too fast, sparks flying like he’s trying to set the whole fucking place on fire.
Ghost is where he always is—silent, still, and watching everything from the shadows.
And Sin?
Sin’s bent over the fucking toolbox in those cut-off shorts that ride up every time she so much as breathes. One of my shirts clings to her back, loose and worn, hanging off one shoulder like a goddamn invitation. She doesn’t wear it like she borrowed it. She wears it like it belongs to her now.
Her ribs are still bruised, the deep kind that take their time healing.
But I see them. Every time she stretches.
Every time her shirt rides up. And every fucking time, the rage that burns through me makes my hands twitch.
I know who left those marks. I remember their faces.
And if I ever see them again, I’ll carve new ones.
I should stop watching her. Should pretend I’m focused on the bike, or the race, or anything else.
But I can’t.
Every smirk she throws across the room. Every drop of grease she wipes off her fingers like she knows I’m watching. Every smart-ass comment. Every slow stretch.
She’s fucking feral. And it’s driving me insane.
Worse?
Now every other asshole in this place is watching her too.
And I’m one second away from breaking someone’s fucking jaw for it.
My jaw tightens as she laughs at something Luca says, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. Her long legs stretch out as she leans into the bike, examining the new exhaust line we installed last night.
She doesn’t notice the way the eyes follow her.
But I fucking do.
A couple of racers from Graveborn’s crew linger just outside the garage—filthy pricks with too much ego and not enough brains. One of them, some smug bastard with a scar down his cheek and that coked-up twitch in his jaw, peels away from the group and saunters toward her like he owns the place.
His gaze drags across her body—slowly, deliberately, and filthy. He’s practically undressing her with his eyes, and I can already see how this ends.
Sin looks up as he approaches, one brow arched, cocky as ever, mouth curved in that sharp little smirk she wears like armor. She says something—something smart, probably something biting—but he leans in, ignoring it, eyes glued to her chest like he’s never seen tits before.
His buddies laugh from the shadows behind him, one of them licking his lips like she’s the fucking special on the menu.
The fuck they think this is?
I’m already moving.
Steps heavy. Vision tunneling. Rage pumping molten in my veins.
Sin sees me. She straightens, eyes narrowing slightly—not scared, just curious. She knows something’s coming. Probably heard the crack of my knuckles when I clenched my fists.
Scarface doesn’t even have time to turn before my fist connects with his jaw.
Bone. Skin. Blood.
He hits the ground hard, back cracking against the concrete as the others freeze.
I stand over him, my fists clenched, and chest heaving.
“Touch her,” I growl, voice low and fucking lethal, “and the next thing hitting the floor’ll be your goddamn teeth.”
He groans, blood dripping from his mouth.
The others shift behind him like they’re thinking about stepping in.
I raise my head, lock eyes with each of them. “Go ahead. Make this interesting.”
None of them move.
Didn’t think so.
The bastard coughs, blood leaking down his chin, and I hear Bishop behind me, voice sharp.
“Riot. That’s enough.”
“Back the fuck off,” I snap.
Sin’s eyes are locked on me now, unreadable. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word. Taz is already by her side, ears pinned back, growling low like she’s one second from launching at the guy’s throat.
Bishop moves in and grabs my shoulder. “I said that’s enough. You want to survive the next race, you keep your shit tight. Not lose.”
I don’t respond, just shove the racer away and wipe the blood off my hand and onto his jacket. “Get the fuck outta my garage.”
The asshole stumbles off, holding his face, and the crew goes quiet.
Bishop drags me to the side.
“You wanna get yourself killed?” he mutters, voice low. “Because this?” He jerks his head toward Sin. “This is gonna get you killed if you don’t control it.”
“She’s part of my team.”
“She’s not just your fucking team. She’s your goddamn weakness.”
My knuckles flex. “She killed a guy for me.”
“And that don’t make her bulletproof, Riot. It makes her the top target on every piece of shit in this place’s hitlist.”
We stare each other down, the hum of tools and machines surrounding us, but nothing drowns out the weight of what he’s saying.
“She’s tougher than most of the assholes here,” I say.
Bishop sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, but she ain’t invincible. Neither are you. You’re letting your feelings show and in The Gauntlet? That’s like bleeding into shark-infested waters.”
I don’t respond.
Because he’s not wrong.
“Let’s just finish the bike,” I say finally, turning back toward it. “We leave in the morning for Wraithmoor.”
“Concrete Graveyard,” Bishop mutters, eyeing the bike. “You ready for that shit?”
“Don’t have a choice.”
We both look over the mods. Sin added a reinforced undercarriage brace, knowing the terrain will be more fractured—sinkholes, cracked asphalt, and sharp elevation drops.
Bishop’s got EMP flares wired beneath the frame now, a defense against sensor-triggered traps.
With Ghost’s help, I installed retractable tire spikes, just in case we need to climb something or someone.
The tension doesn’t let up.
Not when I see the way Sin moves through the garage like she owns the damn place. Not when I catch the half-smile that curves her lips when she knows I’m watching, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away. Just lets it hang there, smug as hell.
Something sharp and feral twists in my chest.
She’s mine.
Whether they want to accept it or not? Doesn’t matter.
It’s how it is.
And that’s enough to get blood spilled if anyone so much as breathes wrong in her direction.
The air outside hits cooler than the garage, but it doesn’t put out the heat crawling under my skin. Not after that shit.
I light up, smoke curling around my fingers, the ember flaring orange in the low light spilling from the bay. My jaw’s tight and my fists still haven’t unclenched. I’m not even sure I’m breathing right.
I hate it—this feeling. Uncontrolled. Violent. Too fucking close to something I can’t name.
Footsteps. Light.
I don’t have to look to know it’s her.
Taz trots out first, always a step ahead, tail sweeping low as she gives me a look like she knows I need to cool the fuck down. Then Sin appears, stepping out of the shadows like she was made for them, arms folded, chin tilted, mouth curved in that cocky little smirk that always spells trouble.
“You know,” she says, voice light, teasing, “you really need to work on your people skills. Ever consider a hobby that doesn’t involve breaking faces?”
I don’t answer, just take a drag off the cigarette.
She strolls closer, shoulder brushing the wall beside mine as she leans back like we’re just two friends shooting the shit, not standing on the edge of a warzone. Her head tilts up, eyes scanning the dark sky like she’s waiting for it to crack open and drop something better.
“Relax,” she says after a beat, still playing it cool. “He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even get the chance.”
My jaw ticks. “Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to.”
Her eyes flick toward me, narrowing. “And what? You think I couldn’t handle a little slimeball with grabby hands? Please. I’ve handled worse.”
She tries to keep the tone light, but something in her voice tightens. The bravado flickers, and then it's gone, like a match burning out.
I glance at her but she doesn’t look at me.
“I could’ve handled it,” she says again, quieter this time.
“No,” I mutter, voice low and sharp. “You shouldn’t fucking have to.”
Her smirk fades, replaced by something raw. Something real. For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Just watches the dark horizon, lips pressed into a tight line. Then she lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, not quite surrender.
“You really don’t get it, do you?”
I flick ash onto the concrete. “Enlighten me.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter, brittle. “When I was a kid, before everything went to shit, I used to think things were already bad. Grew up in a shit apartment in the outskirts of Noxhaven. Mom worked nights, drank days. I figured out early the world didn’t hand girls like me anything but bruises.”
I glance at her, but she’s still not looking at me. Her eyes are locked on the sky, far away.
“But when the world crumbled? When the Syndicate took over and the cities burned?” She pauses and swallows. “That’s when it really started.”
I don’t speak, I don’t breathe.
“I was fifteen when I got traded for a bag of rations and two gallons of water,” she says, tone flat. “No one asked me. No one cared. One minute I was scraping by in some shelter, the next I was property.”
My stomach turns.
“They moved me from place to place. Men with hands that never asked. Chains. Markets. Fucked-up parties with rich assholes bidding on girls like we were fucking cattle.”
Her voice doesn’t shake. She’s past that. Past breaking.
“I killed the first man who tried to break me. Snapped his neck with a piece of broken pipe. Didn’t wait for applause, just ran.”
She finally turns toward me then, but there’s no fear in her gaze. No shame. Just steel.
“I don’t tell you this for pity, Riot. I don’t want it. I don’t need you thinking I’m some broken thing that needs your fists to protect me.”
“You’re not broken,” I say without thinking.
She raises a brow. “You don’t even know me.”
I place the cigarette between my lips, slow and steady, the burn at the end flaring to life as I take a drag.
“I know enough,” I mutter through the smoke. “I know you didn’t just survive—you fucking burned the world down to do it.”
That makes her pause, just for a second.
Then she steps closer, real close, her chest brushing mine, fingers moving with zero hesitation as she plucks the cigarette from my mouth like she’s always had the right.
She brings it to her lips, inhales slowly, not breaking eye contact as she does. Smoke curls from the corner of her mouth as she exhales, that cocky smirk tugging at the edge of her lips.
“You know smoking’ll kill you,” I say, watching her mouth like I want to bite the words off it.
She tips her head, eyes flashing. “Yeah? So will breathing, fucking, and just about every other good thing in this world. Might as well go out with a little heat.”
I huff a quiet laugh, dark and amused, dragging my gaze across her face like it might be the last goddamn thing I see.
She laughs too—really laughs—and for a second, the pressure between us breaks. Just a little.
But the look in her eyes?
That fire?
Still fucking there.
A voice cuts through the night.
“Lights out! Garage closes in ten!”
She groans. “Bedtime. Fucking adorable.”
She turns, taking my cigarette with her as she heads back toward the garage. Taz follows after her, but Sin pauses and looks back over her shoulder when I don’t move.
“You coming, or you gonna mope out here like a broody teenager?”
I stare after her. This girl—this woman—who’s taken every ounce of pain the world’s ever dealt and somehow stayed sharp, alive, and strong enough to still fucking laugh.
And she thinks I’m the dangerous one.
Fucking hell.
I run a hand over my jaw and follow her back in.
Because tonight? She didn’t just let me in. She gave me the truth. And for the first time in a long fucking time… someone finally trusted me with something real, and I’ll carry that weight like it’s mine.