Chapter 17
Seventeen
Riot
Animal - Badflower
There’s a certain kind of rage that doesn’t burn.
It calcifies.
Turns to stone in your gut and wraps around your ribs until breathing feels like punishment.
That’s what this is.
Not fire. Not fury.
Something colder and meaner.
Something that wants blood and doesn’t give a fuck if it gets mine too, as long as it takes enough with it.
Doc's face won't leave my head.
The bruises. The fucking wires in her jaw. The fact that she tried to crawl back to us, bleeding, broken, alone. Because Jace wanted to send a fucking message.
Message received motherfucker, and now we’re sending one back.
Carved in bone and soaked in blood.
He thinks this ends with fear?
He forgot who the fuck he’s dealing with.
I slide a fresh mag into my SIG XFive, the solid click echoing through the room like a warning.
I hold it in my hand for a second, feeling the weight of it settle, steady and cold.
Tungsten-infused alloy frame—heavier than polymer, meant to soak recoil without flinching.
Custom slide cuts for speed. Suppressor-ready barrel.
Trijicon RMR sight locked in low for fast, lethal targeting.
Smooth. Fast. Built for war.
The kind of weapon you draw when you're ready to end something.
A killer’s gun.
I holster it low on my right hip, cross-draw ready. Close-quarters isn’t about volume, it’s about speed and precision. One shot, clean. No time for second chances.
Across the room, Sin’s tugging on her jacket, jaw tight, eyes flashing with something sharp enough to cut steel. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to.
She’s watching me like I’m about to explode, and she’s not wrong.
I catch her checking the gauge on her holster and stepping into her boots. She looks at me like she dares me to say she’s not ready.
But I don’t.
Because she is tougher than I give her credit for, and I fucking know it.
She survived without me, scraped and clawed her way through hell when no one else gave a shit.
But now?
Now she’s mine to protect.
And I swear to whatever's left out there I’ll rip this whole fucking world apart with my bare hands before I let anyone lay a finger on her.
I’ll die before I let her hurt again.
And I’ll take a thousand motherfuckers with me on the way down.
I strap my gear tight and cross the room. I stop in front of her, close enough to see the little bruise still blooming beneath her jaw from where I marked her last night.
I don’t speak until she finally looks up.
“Listen to me,” I say, voice low and hard. “You move when I move. No hesitation. No going rogue. You stay on me, Little Stray, every second. If shit goes sideways, you run. You dip. No risk-taking. No stupid fucking heroics. Revenge isn’t worth your life.”
Her chin lifts. “You always this romantic before murder?”
I glare.
She grins.
And for a second, it’s almost normal.
Almost.
Bishop meets us in the alley outside. The three of us move fast—coordinated, silent, cutting through the steel bones of Wraithmoor like ghosts.
Ghost’s drone pings us an exact location: an off-grid warehouse out by the rail line, where Jace’s guy was last seen ducking into a transport rig with crates too heavy to be legal.
The sky above is sludge-dark, clouded in ash from the factories that never stopped burning. Pipes hiss steam along the gutters, while rats scatter beneath our boots.
We reach the warehouse.
It’s massive—corrugated steel slouched like a rusting corpse, with busted windows glowing orange from flood lamps inside. The scent of motor oil and cheap drugs leaks out through the cracks. Inside, I count three shapes—Jace and two of his men.
Sin nods. “I want the tall one.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
She pulls her blade free. “He looks like he underestimates women.”
Fair.
Bishop slips around back, I take the side door and Sin moves up toward the loading dock, crouched low.
Three. Two. One.
We strike.
I breach first—shoulder to steel—gun already raised. One of Jace’s men turns, eyes wide, scrambling for the rifle on the table.
Too slow.
Two shots. One to the knee. One to the throat.
He gurgles. Collapses.
The second lunges for Sin—big, broad, swinging a blade. She ducks. Fast. Slides beneath the table and slashes his Achilles from below.
He roars. Falls.
She’s on him before he can scream again—blade to the gut, straight up.
He gasps, shudders and goes still.
I’m already moving.
But Jace?
That motherfucker’s already halfway out the back door.
“Riot—” Bishop’s voice crackles through the comms, but I’m already running.
Too late.
By the time I reach the exit, he’s gone, vanished into the steel maze outside. I hiss through my teeth and punch the frame hard enough to dent it.
Coward.
I turn back.
And that’s when I feel it.
Pain. Sharp. Wet.
I lift my hand—blood.
Fuck.
He tagged me on the way out. Knife caught my ribs.
I stagger slightly, catching myself on the wall.
Sin’s already running toward me.
Her eyes land on the blood.
Her expression shifts.
She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t panic.
Her eyes land back on the blood blooming beneath my jacket.
Her expression shifts from adrenaline-honed focus to something darker. Quieter. She presses her palm flat against my chest—firm, grounding.
“Go sit your ass down. Now.”
I let her. More out of breath than obedience.
By the time we’re back in the warehouse quarters, I’m in the chair, chest bare, blood still sliding sluggishly down my ribs.
She doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t even flinch.
Her jacket’s already off, sleeves shoved up.
Fingers stained from the night. She moves with the precision of someone too angry to be gentle but too careful to be cruel.
“Don’t you dare say it’s nothing,” she mutters, peeling the fabric away from the wound.
“It’s nothing,” I say anyway, lips twitching.
She shoots me a glare that could cut steel.
The slash runs from just below my ribs to my side—long, deep, and red.
Sin kneels beside me, pulls the med kit open, and starts cleaning it, fast and brutal. I don’t hiss. Don’t flinch.
She does enough of both for the two of us.
“You ever not throw yourself at the biggest blade in the room?” she snaps.
“If I see a blade coming for you, I’m always throwing myself at it,” I answer, voice low.
Her hands still for a second but she doesn’t look at me, just pours antiseptic on the wound, dabs it with gauze, and starts stitching.
“You’re a damn idiot,” she whispers.
“Maybe.”
“And reckless.”
“Always.”
Her hands move slower now. Her voice drops with them. “But you came back for me. When Jace ran, you could’ve gone after him.”
“I was going after him,” I say.
She looks up. “So why didn’t you?”
“Because you were still in the room.”
Her breath stutters.
That silence stretches between us, thick and full of everything we’ve never said. Everything we won’t. She finishes the stitch, cuts the thread with her blade, and tapes the bandage down.
Then she sits back on her heels and just looks at me.
“I told you not to get hurt.”
“And I told you not to get involved.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re both shit at listening.”
A beat passes. Then she leans in slowly and presses her lips to the skin just above the bandage. It’s soft. Careful. Her mouth lingers like she’s trying to seal the wound shut with heat and silence.
And then she looks up.
“You didn’t have to let me come.”
“You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to,” she says, voice so quiet it barely cuts through the noise in my head. “Jace made it personal. So now it’s personal.”
The words land heavier than I want them to. My gut knots, instincts screaming at me to stay focused, to stay ready, but her fingers move to my belt and everything inside me locks tight. My breath catches, sharp and unwilling.
I’m not good at this shit. At letting go of control. But then she looks up at me, steady, unflinching and for a second, the noise in my head goes still.
"You've done enough for me. For all of us," she whispers, barely a breath, but it hits harder than any punch ever could. "Let me do something for you."
Every muscle in my body’s coiled tight. Every instinct clawing at me to push her back, to stay guarded.
Already choosing to be there, and for once in my goddamn life, I let her. Before I can even answer, she slides down between my legs slowly.
Her palms trail along my thighs as she sinks to her knees, never breaking eye contact. The room tilts around us, narrowing down to nothing but the heat of her breath against my skin and the way my chest tightens so fucking hard it hurts.
I don’t stop her. I don’t tell her no.
Because in this moment? It’s not about control or dominance.
It’s about surrender.
About my little stray giving it, and for once in my fucking life, me letting her.
Her fingers move to my belt, unfastening it with deft, unhurried movements. She’s taking her time. Drawing it out. Making me feel every second of it.
The leather slides free. She pops the button on my pants, pulls the zipper down slow enough that the scrape of it sounds like a gun cocking in the dead silence between us.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My hand fists in her hair, wrapping tight, holding her there. Not to force her, just to anchor myself.
Because the second she touches me, I know I’m going to come undone.
“That’s the idea,” she whispers, voice thick and wrecked too, like this is undoing her as much as it’s undoing me.
Her hands are gentle but sure as she frees me, palms curling around the base of my cock, already hard and heavy with everything I’ve been holding back.
She doesn’t rush.
She strokes once, slow and firm, dragging her hand up with a twist that makes my breath hitch.
The corner of her mouth curves, wicked and sweet all at once, before she leans in and wraps those pretty lips around me.
I groan, the sound ripping straight from my chest.
My hips jerk forward instinctively, but I hold back—barely—tightening my grip in her hair to stay grounded as she sets a rhythm.
Slow.
Steady.
Deliberate.
Her tongue flicks, teasing the underside with every pass, and I swear I see stars.
She hums low in her throat like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and she fucking does.
I can’t look away.
The sight of her like this—on her knees, willing, and fucking mine—is branded into me deeper than any scar I carry.
I guide her rhythm with my hand tangled in her hair, not forcing, just steering, keeping her right where I want her. Where I know she wants to be. Her eyes flick up, meeting mine, and something primal cracks loose in my chest.
"Good girl," I rasp, the words rough as gravel.
She hums at the praise, the vibration traveling straight through me like a live wire.
My thighs tense. My grip tightens. My breathing turns savage, harsh in the stillness of the room.
She picks up her pace taking me deeper, working me with a mix of sweet torment and practiced precision, like she wants to break me apart.
And fuck, she’s doing a damn good job of it.
My muscles lock and every nerve ending snaps tight.
“Fuck, Sin...” I growl through gritted teeth, hips jerking forward despite myself.
She takes it.
Takes all of it without hesitation, without fear, like she was made for this.
My hand fists harder in her hair, guiding her faster now, rougher, the edge coming at me like a freight train.
"Mine," I snarl, voice wrecked. "You fucking hear me?"
She moans in answer, low and needy, and that’s it.
I slam my hips up once, twice then spill into her mouth with a guttural sound torn straight from my soul.
White-hot pleasure rips through me, blinding and brutal.
I keep her there, holding her tight against me, feeling every last shudder, every last pulse, as she takes it all.
When I finally loosen my grip, she pulls back slowly, licking her lips, smirking up at me with those wicked fucking eyes.
She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, casually, like she didn’t just ruin me.
“Guess I’m good for something after all,” she murmurs, voice hoarse, teasing.
I lean down, grab her chin in one hand, and tilt her face up to mine—rough, amused, and high on her.
“Good for a whole lot more than that, Little Stray,” I rasp, smirking. “But I’m not about to start complaining.”
Her lips curve into a smug, sinful smile.
And fuck, I’d let her ruin me a thousand more times if she looked at me like that.
I haul her up into my lap, crushing my mouth to hers in a brutal kiss, tasting myself on her tongue, not giving a fuck about anything except the fact that she's here.
Alive.
Mine.
When I finally pull back, breathing hard, I press my forehead to hers.
“We're not done," I murmur against her lips, my voice rough and low. "Not even close."
She doesn’t argue. She just clings tighter.
I slide one arm under her thighs, the other around her back, and lift her off the floor like she weighs nothing.
She laughs—soft, breathless—pressing her face into my throat as I carry her to the bed.
I don’t rush it.
I don’t want to.
Because tomorrow, the world shifts again.
We might’ve survived Wraithmoor.
Might’ve bled our way through The Concrete Graveyard, but The Dead Zone’s waiting now, and it’s not a race. It’s a fucking tomb. And most of the bastards lined up for it aren’t driving to win.
They’re driving to kill.
But tonight?
Tonight none of that matters.
Not the death waiting for us.
Not the darkness clawing at the edges.
Not even the bodies we dropped tonight.
Tonight, all that matters is her—warm, breathing, and in my arms.
And if hell thinks it can let tomorrow’s problems take her from me? It’s gonna find out real fucking quick, I’ll burn it down first.