Chapter 14
Fourteen
Sienna
ILUV by Yet
So.
I fucked Riot Carter.
Let me rephrase that.
Riot Carter fucked me against a wall so hard I’m pretty sure the drywall filed for emotional damages. And judging by the bruises on my hips, the bite on my neck, and the way I still can’t fully straighten my legs, he meant every goddamn second of it.
Not that I’m complaining.
Well… okay, I’m complaining a little.
Because now?
Now the air between us is heavy. Different.
Like something burned down overnight and neither of us is sure if we should mourn it… or dance in the ashes.
He hasn’t said much this morning.
Just watched me from across the room, leaning against the rusted steel sink in the corner of our warehouse unit, arms crossed like a bouncer to hell. His eyes haven’t left me once. Dark. Focused. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m something he wants to cage or worship.
Maybe both.
My muscles ache as I dress. My shirt clings to sweat and bruises. I wince when the collar brushes my neck, right where his teeth sank in. His mark. A raw, perfect crescent stamped over my pulse.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His jaw flexes like he’s trying to bite back something dangerous. Or maybe he just likes looking at the proof of what he did. What I let him do.
Because he didn’t ask.
And I didn’t say no.
I wanted it.
I slide into my jacket with my back still turned when his voice cuts through the silence, low, rough, and sharp as broken glass.
“Did you do it?”
That’s all he says.
But I know exactly what he means.
I go still.
Not because I didn’t expect the question but because it sounds like he wants the answer to be yes. Like a part of him would understand if I said I snapped and buried a knife in that bastard’s chest.
I don’t turn yet.
I stare at the wall instead, letting the words echo in my head.
Did you do it?
They all think I did. The handlers. The press. Half the Syndicate.
A bloody body. No witnesses. The wrong place. My name smeared across every screen from here to the Outskirts.
I was framed. I know that. Riot knows that.
But proof doesn’t matter here.
Bodies do.
I finally glance over my shoulder, giving him just enough of a look to sting.
“What, no good morning? No cigarette?”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
His voice comes again, harder now. Like grit laced with gasoline.
“Just answer the fucking question, Sin.”
I turn to face him fully. Arms crossed. Chin up. And even though my heart’s hammering, I make sure he sees nothing but steel.
“No,” I say.
One word. Flat. True.
He watches me. Silent.
I let the moment drag. Let it twist the air between us.
“But I wanted to,” I add.
His eyes narrow, something sharp flickering behind them.
I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter, though. I’m already guilty in their eyes. The Syndicate wants a body, and mine’s the cheapest option.”
Riot’s expression shifts.
His silence doesn’t feel empty, it feels loud. Like something in him just cracked and reformed in the shape of a decision.
I go on, voice low. “I’m dead regardless.”
He grabs my jaw—not rough, not gentle—just final. His thumb brushes over my lip, then my chin, grounding me.
He leans in, breath hot against my skin.
“No,” he says, voice like gravel and thunder. “I’m not letting that happen.”
Then he lowers his mouth to the bite he left on my neck and speaks the next words straight into my skin, like a brand.
“I’m the only one who gets to hurt you now.”
And fuck me.
I believe him.
I’m still pulling on my jacket when the knock hits the warehouse door—quick, clipped, no hesitation.
Doc doesn’t wait for an invite. She swings it open and steps inside with her med bag slung over one shoulder and a whole lot of judgment in her eyes.
She takes one look at me—at the bruises on my thighs, the teeth marks on my neck—and lets out a low whistle.
“Well, shit. You let him mark you like a chew toy before the race?”
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, zipping halfway and reaching for my goggles.
Doc drops the bag on a workbench and pops it open. “Didn’t realize Riot was part Pitbull. Next time, maybe muzzle him before he starts gnawing on arteries.”
I shoot her a look. “You done?”
“Not even close.” She peels open a sterilized wipe, closes the distance between us, and gestures to my neck. “Tilt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re punched-out, bruised-up, and bleeding from a bite. You’re not fine. You’re freshly fucked and lying about it.”
Riot shifts behind me, muttering something low under his breath.
Doc doesn’t look back. “You growl one more time and I’ll sedate you like a rabid dog.”
I snort. Riot exhales, probably the only reason he hasn’t murdered her yet.
Doc dabs the bite with the alcohol wipe, quick and precise, like she’s done this a hundred times. “You’re lucky this isn’t already infected. Who knows where his mouth has been.”
“He’s very clean,” I deadpan.
“Right,” she smirks. “And I’m a virgin.”
She tapes a small pad over the worst of the bruising, then leans back to inspect her work. “It won’t help the fact that everyone in a ten-block radius heard what went down last night. But hey, least you’ll look hot bleeding out.”
Riot crosses his arms, looming in the doorway. “You done now?”
Doc zips the med kit shut and grins. “Don’t worry, big guy. She’s still in one piece. Mostly.”
“She better be,” he mutters.
Doc pats my cheek on her way out. “If you need me, I’ll be patching up the ones who didn’t get laid last night.”
She pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and flicks her eyes toward Riot.
“Crews are already in the pit. Handler’s calling for staging.”
Then she looks at me and the smirk fades from her lips.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but someone just dropped a bet on your head.”
My stomach twists.
Doc doesn’t blink as she says it. “One point four million credits. Dead or dying.”
Riot straightens behind me, slow and sharp.
I turn to look at him and find him grinning.
A low, cocky laugh slips past his lips, but there’s nothing soft in it. Just heat. Teeth. A warning dressed like humor.
“Cute,” he mutters. “They think they’ll get a shot.”
He steps closer, eyes locked on Doc. “Not while she’s on my bike.”
His tone is casual, but every word lands like a bullet.
Doc nods once, satisfied. “Didn’t think so. Still, eyes up. Everyone out there wants their payday.”
Her gaze flicks back to me, cooler now, but no less real.
She turns and walks out, heavy boots echoing across the metal floor.
Silence follows.
And in that silence, something inside me shifts.
This isn’t just survival anymore.
This is war.
And I’m the fucking prize.
By the time we step into the yard, the air already feels like war.
Engines roar. Smoke clings to the ground like it’s trying to suffocate us before the race even starts. Drones buzz overhead like mechanical vultures, red lenses blinking as they lock onto riders and beam every second of this bloodsport straight to the districts. Live. Raw. No edits.
The crowd’s packed in tight behind the barricades—handlers, smugglers, junkies, degenerates—every last one of them screaming for violence like it’s a sporting event and not a televised execution.
Wraithmoor doesn’t do subtle.
Everything here is cracked, rusted, or bleeding.
Cranes sit frozen mid-collapse. Overpasses dangle by cables, half-swallowed by smog. The ground is scarred with old tire marks and fresh blood. This place? It doesn’t care who you are, or how fast you ride.
It only cares if you survive.
They call this circuit The Concrete Graveyard.
Which is fitting.
Because I’m pretty sure some of us won’t be leaving it with our bones intact.
I walk like I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to prove because I do. My black tactical pants cling tight. Combat boots bite the ground with each step. My cropped Kevlar jacket’s cut high enough to show ink, but low enough to make anyone staring regret it.
And the helmet I’ve got under my arm? Scuffed, black, and pissed off.
Same as me.
Riot’s beside me, towering and carved from fuck-you energy. His armor looks like it was dragged out of a grave and reforged in a riot—matte black, reinforced, silent. His helmet’s got a crimson slash across it that isn’t paint, and nobody’s brave enough to ask.
They’re watching us.
Every crew.
Every rider.
Every Syndicate handler leaning over the rails with credits in their eyes and blood in their teeth.
Some of racers are riding in pairs now.
Not because it’s smart, just because they think riding in pairs gives them some kind of edge. Like slapping a second body on a bike suddenly makes them invincible.
I grin to myself.
Cute.
Let them play copycat. They still don’t stand a chance.
There are no rules in The Gauntlet. No safety nets. No alliances. Just teeth, speed, and bodies on the concrete.
And while they’re trying to figure out how to get the upper hand on us?
We’re already two moves ahead.
Bishop’s the first to crack the silence.
“Well, good morning, lovebirds,” he says, grinning as he flicks a cigarette into the dirt. “Get any sleep?”
Luca huffs. “She definitely didn’t.”
Ghost doesn’t even pretend to be involved. He just flicks a glance at me, then at Riot, then back at the floor like he’s mentally counting how many ways this ends badly.
I smirk. “Next time I’ll scream Luca’s name. Keep things interesting.”
He chokes. “Please don’t.”
“Enough,” Riot growls, already stepping between us like he thinks someone’s going to try me in broad daylight.
And honestly, they might. The whisper’s already out that there’s a bet.
One-point-four million credits, dead or dying, on me.
No face, no confirmation. Just a name passed from one pit to the next, sparking kill plans in the heads of every desperate bastard with a death wish and a gun. Let them try. I hope they do.
We mount up in silence, besides the sound of the crowd screaming and the smell of fire thick in the air. Not with the drones circling like vultures. Not when every person in this yard wants to cash in on my corpse.
Riot’s checking the rear tire like it might be the thing that decides if we live or die, but I can feel his eyes on me every few seconds. Tracking me, like he needs to.
I’m adjusting my gloves when he finally speaks. His voice is low. Rough. “I like seeing it.”
I blink. “What?”
He nods once, chin tilting toward my collarbone exposed by the edge of my jacket.
The bite mark.
“Oh, this?” I smirk. “Yeah, real subtle. I’m sure no one noticed the part where you tried to eat me alive.”
His lips twitch like he wants to smile but he doesn’t. Not all the way.
Instead, he crosses the space between us and grabs my chin—firm but slow—turning my face up to his.
The noise fades for a second. Just him. Just me.
His thumb drags across my bottom lip, rough leather brushing soft skin.
“Hold on,” he says, voice low enough to burn. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
I stare back at him.
Not smirking. Not joking.
Because something in his voice cuts deeper than the rest.
He’s scared.
Not of the race, but of losing me.
I nod once.
“I won’t,” I say. “But don’t get us killed, either.”
He releases my face like a promise and moves back to the bike.
We mount up in silence, our movements synced, practiced, and ready. I slide my helmet on, and the HUD flares to life with a faint electric hum—brighter, faster, upgraded. Riot’s newest mod.
A split-screen interface sweeps across the visor, marking targets in real time and tracking terrain shifts within a hundred-meter radius.
It syncs to Riot’s bike, feeds me his vitals, route projections, ammo counts, and engine heat levels like a lifeline wired straight to his pulse.
A new feature—a heartbeat tracker—flickers in the corner, locked on his signature. Green. Steady. Fierce.
He’s already lowering his visor beside me, gloves tightening around the throttle.
We don’t need to speak.
The hunt’s already begun.
Overhead, the Syndicate announcer crackles through the speakers, his voice smooth, cruel, and soaked in adrenaline.
“Districts, this is your final call… place your bets. The Graveyard is open.”
The crowd behind the barricades roars like animals.
“Welcome to Wraithmoor, where the roads collapse and so do the bodies. No rules. No resets, and no breaks. Just wreckage.”
The launch lights flash from red to yellow.
“Every camera’s live. Every racer’s expendable. And The Concrete Graveyard… is hungry.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
Riot leans forward just slightly, and I follow, chest to his back, locked in.
“Let’s give ‘em a show.”
Green.
Go.