Chapter 11
Eleven
Sienna
Gangsta - Kelhani
Riot’s quarters are dim and quiet when we get back, just like always. The overhead light flickers once before settling into a low, warm glow that tries to make this place look less like a murder shack and more like someone actually lives here. Cute effort, but still fails.
Taz jumps onto the cot like it’s her goddamn throne, circles once, then flops down beside me with a grunt loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
I scratch behind her ears absently, fingers trailing over the soft spot near her jaw, but my eyes are locked on the cracked plaster above, the exposed pipes, and peeling paint.
The faint scent of smoke and motor oil that clings to everything in here—including me now.
And the memory of what I said out there? Yeah, that shit clings too.
I don’t know why the hell I told him. Maybe it was the way he didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make some pity face or ask stupid questions. He just stood there, quiet and still, like maybe... he actually gave a shit.
But now?
Now he hasn’t said a word to me since we left the showers. Barely even looked at me. Just went back to being his usual broody, silent, emotionally constipated self. And yeah, I’m a dumbass, because some tiny part of me—one I thought I buried years ago—hoped he’d say something.
Something real. Something that might make me feel less like I ripped open my own chest just to bleed in front of someone who doesn’t bleed for anyone.
Instead, I’m sitting here in a pair of stolen pajama shorts that say Dr. Pepper across the ass, swimming in one of his oversized shirts, with bruised ribs and a stomach full of regret.
Taz’s big head is heavy on my thigh like she’s claimed me as her new pillow, and honestly, I’m not even mad about it.
She’s warmer than the threadbare blanket and way less confusing than her asshole of an owner.
But the quiet? The quiet’s fucking eating me alive.
Because I didn’t just survive out there.
I told him. I handed him pieces of me I don’t give to anyone, and now I’m sitting here wondering if I fucked that up, too. If maybe this was one of those moments where you think it means something, and it turns out, it didn’t mean shit at all.
I roll to my side, pressing my cheek to Taz’s fur. She huffs but doesn’t move. Maybe she gets it. Maybe she’s been here longer than I have and knows this is just how he is.
Still, a part of me wants to throw something heavy at his stupid skull and scream, Say something, dickhead. Let me know I didn’t just bleed for no fucking reason.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lie there in the silence, curled on Riot’s cot, the oversized tee I snagged from the bin falling off one shoulder, clinging to my skin in the heavy heat. Taz is pressed against my legs, warm and steady like a four-legged furnace, snoring softly like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Must be nice.
I stare up at the ceiling, not for answers, just because it’s better than looking at Riot. The cracks and peeling paint aren’t judging me. They aren’t pretending not to care when they obviously fucking do.
He’s barely looked at me since I told him everything.
Not a word. Not a glance. Just silence and tension.
And now I feel like a dumbass for opening my mouth. For thinking he might actually understand. That maybe, for once, I wasn’t the only broken thing in the room.
The chair scrapes across the floor and I glance over.
Riot moves like he’s got all the time in the world, reaching under the cot and pulling out a beat-up duffel. He sets two bottles down with a clink. A deck of cards follows.
I raise a brow. “What’s this? The part where you get me drunk enough to forget I overshared?”
He smirks, slow and unapologetic. “You think that little story of yours scared me off?”
“Didn’t hear you say much after it.”
He shrugs, leaning back in the chair, tattoos catching the low light like inked shadows. “Didn’t have to. I listened.”
“Well,” I mutter, folding my arms, “you’ve got a real weird way of showing you give a shit.”
His eyes flick to mine. “I’m not a ‘talk it out’ kinda guy, Sin. But I figured you might need something to do besides stare holes in my ceiling.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I lie.
“Sure.” He leans forward, grabs the cards, starts shuffling with one hand. “You were mentally redecorating. How about a game?”
I squint at him. “Poker?”
He nods once.
“And the bottles?”
“Moonshine,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Stole it off a dead guy in Sector Ash.”
“Charming.” I eye the bottle. “Is this your version of therapy?”
He grins. “If it works, it works.”
I exhale a sharp breath, sitting up straighter. “Fine. Deal me in.”
Riot’s gaze rakes over me, and there’s something in it—something hot and dangerous. “You sure? I don’t play nice.”
“Good,” I say, plucking a bottle from the crate. “I’m better when it’s dirty.”
His smirk curves slow and wicked. “You keep saying shit like that, Little Stray, and I might have to test that theory.”
Heat flares under my skin, but I ignore it. Barely.
I motion to the cards. “Let’s just play, Romeo.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he deals the first hand. “Careful, Sin. You’re gonna make me think you’re actually starting to like me.”
I meet his eyes dead-on, raising my cards without breaking the stare. “Don’t get cocky, Carter.”
He grins. “Too late.”
I sit up, one leg hooked over the edge, moonshine bottle cradled in my palm. My shirt is slipping off one shoulder, but I don’t bother fixing it. Let him look. If he gets distracted, that’s his problem. Hell, maybe I can use it.
Riot’s across from me, legs kicked out, cards shuffling slow between his tattooed fingers like he’s got nowhere to be. Like he’s not watching every move I make from behind that unreadable, smug-as-fuck expression.
My lips curl.
He wants to play cards? Fine.
But I want to play to win.
I take a long pull from the bottle, then glance at him over the rim. “Alright,” I say, setting it down with a soft thunk on the floor. “But let’s make it more… interesting.”
He raises an eyebrow, still shuffling like he’s not even a little surprised. “Oh yeah? What you got in mind, Stray?”
I smirk, leaning back against the wall, stretching my legs out in front of me like I’ve already won. “Strip poker.”
That brow kicks higher. “Strip poker?” he echoes, like he’s just making sure he heard right.
“Unless you’re too much of a coward to find out who walks away with less on and more regrets.”
A beat of silence hangs between us. Heavy. Tense. Thick with possibility.
Then he laughs, low, dark, and dangerous. It curls through me like smoke.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, tongue dragging across his bottom lip as he cuts the deck in half with one hand.
“And you’re predictable.” I flash him a grin, sharp and smug. “Bet you thought I was gonna play nice.”
He deals the cards, movements smooth and cocky. “Nice is boring. You ready to lose, Little Stray?”
I flash my teeth. “You wish.”
“Rules?” he asks, spreading the first hand between us.
“Best out of five,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Lose a hand, lose a layer. First one stripped down loses bragging rights and dignity—if you’ve got any left.”
“And the winner?”
I lean forward, slow, elbows on my knees, voice dropping just a notch. “Gets a wild card. Good for one demand, any time. No questions asked.”
His smile shifts into something darker, hungrier. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
I lean in as I say it, slow and deliberate, elbows on the table, chin tilted up just enough to meet his gaze without flinching. The corner of my mouth curves—not a smile, exactly. A challenge. A dare.
His eyes darken, flicking down my throat, pausing just a little too long at the rise and fall of my chest before snapping back up. He wants me. I can feel it in the weight of his stare, the way his fingers flex around the cards like he’s gripping something he’s not allowed to touch yet.
I’m used to that look. I’ve seen it on more faces than I can count—most of them cruel, careless, like I was something to claim, not choose.
But Riot?
He doesn’t look at me like I’m his to take.
He looks at me like I’m his to earn.
And that? That’s the part that fucks me up.
Because there’s still want in his eyes. Still heat, still hunger but underneath it, there’s something steadier. Solid. Respect. The kind that’s foreign to girls like me.
The kind that makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing playing strip poker with a man who could tear me apart and still somehow make me feel safer than I ever have.
Dangerous.
But then again, like he said, so am I.
Riot stops shuffling. His thumb taps the edge of the deck once. Twice.
“Deal,” he says, and just like that, the room gets ten degrees hotter.
He passes me my cards, and I swear he’s already picturing how this ends.
Too bad for him—I’ve never played fair a day in my life.
Round One
I lose.
Fucking of course I do.
My cards are shit. Three sevens and nothing else. Riot lays down a goddamn straight and leans back like he just cured cancer.
“Off,” he says, eyes locked on my shirt.
I narrow my eyes, but rules are rules.
I grab the hem and tug it over my head, baring my black lace bra. I stay sitting up, one knee bent, spine straight, chin tilted just enough to show I’m not flinching. Then I stretch my arms behind me in a way that’s anything but innocent because I know he’s watching.
His jaw ticks.
His eyes drop.
“Don’t drool,” I mutter.
His grin is slow, wicked. “Too late.”
Round Two
He loses.
Thank fuck.
I slap down a flush, all hearts, and grin like the devil. “Shirt. Off. Now,” I say, all sweet and smug.
Riot curses under his breath but stands, peeling off his shirt in one smooth motion. I do my best not to stare as I bring the bottle of moonshine to my lips and take a long, burning swig.