Chapter 12
Twelve
Riot
Fuck U Love U - Alison Wonderland
The sky’s still that dirty gray-blue when I step outside, the kind that tells you the sun’s coming but hasn’t decided if it’s worth showing up.
Air’s cold. Sharp. Full of exhaust, smoke, and the kind of thickness that only happens before a storm.
I didn’t sleep.
Couldn’t. Not with her scent still on my skin and the memory of her grinding in my lap like she belonged there. That look in her eyes when I kissed her? That sound she made? Fuck. I can still hear it.
She was drunk. Not falling-down shitfaced but lit enough that it would've felt like I was taking something. And I don’t take, not like that. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t hard as fuck when I carried her off my lap and walked away like a goddamn saint.
Putting her down was the hardest fucking thing I’ve done in years. Worth it, though.
That glare she gave me? Priceless.
The yard’s already buzzing. Handlers pacing with rifles slung over their backs. Guards patrolling like rabid dogs, making sure no one tries to sneak off before the convoy rolls out. The Syndicate doesn’t play games—not outside the arena, anyway. You disappear now, they find you later. In pieces.
I stalk toward the garage, lighting a cigarette, eyes dragging across the chaos.
Our ride’s waiting—an old school bus armored to hell and back, black steel plates welded over the windows, jagged panels bolted along the sides.
The engine growls like a beast barely chained, and the inside’s stripped except for a few rows of cracked seats and a rigged storage hold where Taz’s crate sits latched down.
She's curled up inside, but she lifts her head the second she hears me.
Good girl.
Bishop’s checking straps, running through fuel calculations. Luca’s flirting with a handler and Ghost is loading coordinates into the nav system like we’re rolling into war. Which we are. Just happens to come with betting odds and a bloodthirsty audience.
“Carter.”
The voice comes from my left—clipped, all business.
I glance over my shoulder, already grinding my teeth. It’s one of the handlers. Tall, smug, and geared up like he’s about to storm a battlefield instead of babysit racers. He’s holding a clipboard like that’s gonna do anything when I cave his face in.
He eyes Sin as she steps out of the garage, stretching, yawning like she didn’t just light the whole fucking yard on fire with that look she’s wearing.
She steps out wearing skin-tight black jeans—frayed at the knees, hugging every curve like they were stitched onto her skin.
A cropped black top clings to her ribs, just enough fabric to piss off every man who can’t stop staring.
Over it, she’s thrown on a worn black leather jacket that looks like it’s seen as many fights as I have.
Her hair’s down, loose and wild, whipping in the wind like it’s got its own goddamn attitude.
Mouth twisted in something halfway between a smirk and a snarl.
Trouble. Always.
The handler jerks his chin toward her.
“She’s a convict,” the handler grits out, eyes flicking to Sin like she’s dirt on his boot. “Vega rides in the bus—cuffed—with the rest of the trash.”
I step forward, already boiling.
“Like fuck she does. She’s riding with me.”
His jaw tightens. “Standard protocol, Carter, and you know it. She hasn’t been cleared by the Syndicate.
So, she gets the shackles or a bullet to the head.
Either way, I’m not about to get my head blown off because some bitch got special treatment.
Kane’s men see her riding free after what she did?
They’ll lose their fucking minds, and I’m not dying for her. ”
My fists curl so tight my knuckles crack. “Say that again.” I’m in his face before the next breath, close enough to feel his fear start to set in. “You even think about laying a hand on her, and I’ll show you what standard fucking protocol looks like when your jaw’s wired shut.”
His hand inches toward the radio clipped to his vest.
“Try it,” I sneer. “I fucking dare you.”
That’s when the suit shows up.
Voss.
His boots hit the ground heavy, long black coat slicing behind him like a blade.
Perfectly pressed slacks. Steel-grey eyes that don’t blink.
He’s Syndicate top tier. The kind of man who writes checks with blood.
I’ve only seen him up close once before and that was enough to know he’s not just powerful. He’s dangerous.
“Problem?” Voss asks, voice smooth as oil.
The handler stiffens. “Carter’s trying to bypass clearance.”
“She’s riding with me,” I say, jaw locked. “I’ll buy her clearance,” I say, voice low and cold. “Full rate. No questions, no paperwork. Just name your fucking price and make this problem disappear.”
My eyes stay locked on his, daring him to say no. Because we both know this isn’t about rules—it’s about power. And I’ve got enough cash to tip the scales any way I fucking want.
Voss turns his head slightly, eyes cutting to me.
I see it—the flicker of interest.
Not because of her.
Because I just tried to bribe a Syndicate handler right in front of one of the most powerful men in the company. A move that’d get anyone else shot in the fucking head without ceremony.
But I’m not anyone else.
And Voss? That sick bastard loves a good show.
“You carrying enough to cover it?” Voss asks, his voice like velvet stretched over a fucking blade.
I let out a sharp laugh. “What, you think I don’t have it? Don’t insult me.”
He studies me, unreadable, but I don’t flinch. Don’t blink. I stand my ground, every inch of me daring him to push.
“She rides with me,” I say again, slower this time. “Cleared. No cuffs. Or I swear to every god you sick bastards stopped believing in, I’ll make this pit a fucking bloodbath.”
A thick pause stretches.
Then Voss turns his head, eyes sliding to the handler like he’s already bored. “Let him pay. Run the clearance.”
The handler’s face twists. “That’s against—”
“I said run it.”
The fucker flinches, muttering a quiet “Yes, sir” before disappearing into the shadows with his clipboard and what’s left of his pride.
Voss doesn’t move right away. He steps closer, gaze flicking to Sin, then back to me. Cold. Calculating. Like he’s weighing what it would cost to gut me right here and what he’d get from letting me play this game a little longer.
“You’re responsible for her. That means she rides with you, and only you. She goes anywhere she’s not supposed to, causes trouble, even breathes wrong in the wrong direction…” He leans in just enough for only me to hear it. “They’ll put a bullet in her skull before you can blink.”
I stare him down.
“I’m not planning on blinking.”
A beat of silence.
Then he smiles. Barely.
“Let’s hope not.”
He turns and walks off, coat dragging behind him, and just like that, the crowd disperses.
Sin saunters up, hair still wild, brow arched high.
“Okay, I definitely missed something.”
I take a drag. “Took you long enough.”
She rolls her eyes, walking straight to me. “Wasn’t aware I was on your clock, Carter.”
“You are,” I say simply, flicking ash onto the ground. “Now get on.”
She climbs onto the back of the bike like she’s done it a hundred times—easy, confident, without hesitation.
Her hands find my waist, her chest presses tight to my back, and I feel that sharp fucking pull in my gut again.
The one I’ve been trying to ignore since the night she straddled me in nothing but a smirk and a challenge.
She fits there. Too well.
Her scent is all smoke and heat and something I can’t name. Something that sinks into my blood, settles low and dangerous. The warmth of her touch bleeds through my shirt, and every part of me wants to lean back into it. Into her.
“How long is the ride?” she asks, her voice brushing against my ear like a secret.
“Eight hours. Few stops. Try not to fall off.”
“Try not to drive like a suicidal maniac,” she shoots back.
I smirk. “Then what’s the fun?”
But beneath the grin, the tension’s coiled tight behind my ribs. Because I know exactly what the fuck I just did.
Kane’s men want her dead. Want her to bleed for putting his son in the ground. And a man like Kane, someone that high up the Syndicate chain? He’s got the reach to make it happen. He doesn’t need permission. Doesn’t need a reason. Just wants revenge.
And Sin? She’s the target with a bounty painted in blood.
But men like Voss… they don’t give a fuck about revenge unless it turns a profit. They don’t waste a spectacle. And her death? It’ll be one. A Syndicate convict. A Gauntlet racer. The girl who killed Kane’s heir.
But not yet.
Not while she’s still valuable. Not while there’s more drama to be wrung out of this twisted little show. Because what’s more entertaining than watching the reigning champion throw himself into the fire trying to protect her?
They’ll string us along.
Build the tension.
And when it’s time, they’ll want her execution broadcast live—blades and blood and every scream fed into the veins of the sick bastards who keep this empire afloat.
But first, they’ll want to watch me fall for her, and when I go down trying to keep her alive, they’ll make sure the whole fucking world’s watching.
Let them.
Because when they come?
I’ll be ready. And I’ll burn every one of them to ash before I let them touch what’s mine.
The ride’s quiet. Mostly.
The streets bleed into broken highways, then backroads swallowed by creeping roots and rusted husks of cars. Wraithmoor’s still hours away, buried deep in Sector Dusk. Not many make it out there and back. Even less come back whole.
We stop near what used to be a gas station, bones of the building still standing, half-collapsed with vines choking the signage. Cracked tables sit under a leaning awning, and Ghost hops out to start siphoning fuel from a tank that looks older than sin.
I kill the engine.
Sin slides off behind me, arms stretching above her head with a soft groan that has no business sounding that good.