Chapter 18
Eighteen
Riot
The Few Things - JP Saxe, Charlotte Lawrence
She’s warm against me. Soft.
Curled against my chest like she belongs there.
Her leg draped over mine. Fingers twitching in sleep. Hair tangled across my neck. The slow rise and fall of her breath presses heat into my skin.
Taz is snoring at our feet, sprawled sideways like she owns the bed. Which, let’s be honest, she kind of does. But I don’t move.
Not yet.
There’s blood dried under my nails. A tight ache pulled across my ribs from where I took that blade. But for once? I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to think about what comes next.
Because this… this is the first silence I haven’t wanted to destroy.
I trace my fingers down her spine, slowly, memorizing every scar like they mean something.
She made it through hell on her own. Never broke. Never begged.
Now she’s mine.
And if anyone tries to drag her back into that darkness, I won’t just stop them.
I’ll make sure they never crawl out of it.
She shifts, mumbling something incoherent into my chest.
I lean in, brushing a strand of hair off her face with the back of my hand. It's a small thing. Barely a touch. But soft in a way, I’m not, and she clocks it immediately.
“Morning,” I murmur.
Her lashes flicker. Then again. She blinks up at me, eyebrow already arching.
“Did you just tuck my hair?” she says, voice rough with sleep and suspicion. “What, no knife to my throat today?”
I smirk. “You want the knife, or you want breakfast?”
“I’ll take the knife. You’d probably burn the toast. And if you say something poetic, I’m punching you.”
I chuckle low. “Not in the mood for sunrise metaphors and heartfelt shit?”
“Not unless they come with caffeine and a loaded weapon.”
She yawns and stretches, groaning like she’s been hit by a truck. Which—technically—she kind of was.
I roll slowly onto my back. Pain sparks in my side, and I wince.
She notices. “You're still sore.”
“I’ll live.”
“You sure? Because you looked a little white-knuckled trying to take your pants off last night.”
“I was distracted.”
I reach over to the nightstand, grab my pack of smokes, and tap one loose. I slide it between my lips and light it up, the flame briefly flickering across her face as she watches me with that amused, unreadable stare.
She wrinkles her nose. “You know that shit’s going to kill you, right?”
I exhale slowly, eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah? Let it try.”
There’s something quieter between us now. Still fire. Still bite. But underneath that, something’s shifted.
She feels it too. I can see it in her eyes when she looks at me just a second too long.
We get dressed without saying much else. Not cold, just… focused. Like we both know the next storm’s already building.
We hit the pit level, but it’s different now. The air's changed—heavier, meaner.
This part of Wraithmoor’s built like a machine that forgot what it was meant to do—concrete ribs overhead, exposed pipes dripping black sludge, lights flickering with no rhythm. Smoke curls in sheets through busted vents, mixed with the reek of oil, blood, ozone, and something burnt.
Everything smells like the end of something.
Voices hush the second we step into view.
Boots echo against metal flooring. Chain link fences separate crew areas, shadows shifting behind them. Racers lean against cracked walls, cigarettes glowing like embers in their fingers. Some stare. Some look away fast.
I can feel it when we walk in. The shift. The eyes. The weight.
I’m sure Jace ran his mouth already. Spun whatever bullshit story makes him look like the victim. Yeah, we killed his crew. Cut them down like the trash they were. And?
This is The Gauntlet.
There’s no penalty for murder here.
On or off camera, blood’s just part of the entertainment.
Let them watch.
Let them whisper.
I don’t give a single fuck who knows what we did.
They had it coming.
And anyone else who thinks they can fuck with me or with the people I care about?
They’ll end up the same.
Dead.
Or begging to be.
Taz walks between us like a damn soldier, ears high, body alert, every muscle wound tight. She catches the tension before we do.
We don’t even make it halfway through the pit before the voice hits from behind.
“Well, well,” Jace calls, louder than necessary. “The Syndicate’s favorite golden boy and the girl who keeps him warm.”
We stop.
Sin turns first and I follow.
Jace is strutting toward us with his new crew trailing behind him like hired muscle. All swagger, and no soul. He’s got that same cocky grin twisted across his face like he didn’t run last night with his dick in his hands and blood on his boots.
“Too bad I wasn’t there,” he says, flashing teeth. “Could’ve stopped you from butchering my guys.”
Sin tilts her head slowly, amused.
“Do you know what they call guys like you where I’m from?” she asks, voice light and mocking. “Guys who leave their men to die while they crawl into the dark like little bitches?”
His smirk twitches.
“They call them cowards. No-balls, limp-dick, mouthy little shits who talk tough and hide behind bodies they didn’t earn.”
I flick ash from my cigarette, watching his new crew shift uncomfortably behind him.
Sin steps forward, blade still sheathed, but the way she carries herself makes the air feel thinner.
“Do they even know?” she asks, eyes sliding over his new crew. “Do your shiny new boys know what you did? How you ran like a whipped dog while your crew bled out on the floor?”
Jace’s jaw tightens. “I was repositioning—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cuts in, mock surprise curling her lips. “Repositioning? Is that what we’re calling pissing yourself and sprinting like a bitch now?”
He moves like he’s about to rush her.
Taz steps forward with a snarl before I even twitch, fangs bared, ears pinned back. She’s locked on him like she’s waiting for a reason.
Jace’s crew hesitates. Smart.
“I’ll bring you to your knees, Riot,” Jace snaps, redirecting the heat. “You’re not untouchable. I’m gonna be the one to end your streak. Break your legacy. And her?” His eyes flick to Sin, colder now. “She’s gonna get a real ride before I snap her neck.”
The air goes ice fucking cold.
Sin’s hand moves faster than I can process. She grabs him by the collar and slams him into the wall. Metal groans behind his back. Her blade is out and pressed to the underside of his jaw before his next breath.
Blood beads where the edge digs in.
One of his guys starts forward but Taz lunges, growling so low and vicious it vibrates through the floor.
The pit goes deadly silent.
Sin leans in, eyes black, voice like a blade through bone. “Try that shit again, and I won’t just kill you. I’ll make it last.”
Jace freezes. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
“You so much as look at him wrong,” she says, “and I will carve your fucking name into the pavement with your teeth.”
A pair of Syndicate handlers step in from the shadows. Guns holstered, but not far from their hands.
“Enough,” one of them says. “We’re rolling out in under an hour. I don’t care who started it. We don’t need another body bag slowing transport.” Sin doesn’t move. The handler steps closer. “Last warning.”
She pulls back. Just a little. But not before dragging the blade slow enough to slice open a shallow line across Jace’s throat. He flinches and grabs at the cut. It’s not deep, but it’ll sting like hell when he tries to pretend it didn’t happen.
“You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” she whispers, then turns her back on him like he’s already irrelevant.
We walk away.
Taz falls in step behind her. I light another cigarette, watching Jace out of the corner of my eye as we leave him standing there.
He doesn’t say another word.
And he won’t.
Not until he’s ready to die.
The infirmary’s too quiet, making everything worse.
Doc lies still, her skin pale against the blood-stained bandages.
Tubes trail from her arms into machines that look more salvaged than sterile.
Nothing here is high-grade. This isn’t a med bay.
It’s a converted storage room with blackout tarps, scavenged equipment, and warehouse grease still smeared on the walls.
The people working on her, they’re not doctors. Not medics. Just pit crew who know how to sew skin and keep a pulse.
Sin steps in first. Shoulders tight and eyes locked on Doc like the rest of the world’s a blur.
Taz jumps onto the bed and curls up at her feet, head between her paws, growling low. She doesn’t trust the silence either.
Luca’s already inside, crouched near one of the monitors. “Vitals are holding. Still no movement.”
Sin stays by the bedside, one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. Her knuckles are white.
“She wasn’t supposed to be part of this,” she mutters.
“She wasn’t,” I say. “And Jace knew it.”
“She wasn’t supposed to be touched,” Luca says, his voice tighter than usual. “She’s not a racer. She’s not Gauntlet. She fixes what we break. That’s it.”
Bishop stops pacing. “Jace doesn’t give a shit about rules. He only cares about what makes him feel bigger.”
Sin doesn’t look up from Doc’s face. “And picking off someone who never even stepped on the line makes him feel real fucking big, huh?”
“Cowards always go for the soft targets,” Bishop mutters. “They just don’t expect the fallout.”
“She didn’t deserve this,” Sin says, voice lower now, strained but steady.
I nod once. “No one here does. That’s the game.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a reason,” I say, “to hit back harder.”
Maggie adjusts one of the IV lines with steady hands, her expression tight, eyes flicking to the monitor before going back to Doc’s arm. She doesn’t look up when she speaks.
“She’s holding on. Heart rate’s steady. That’s all we need for now.”
She’s not a doctor. Never claimed to be. But none of us trust the Syndicate med team to actually give a shit—not after what happened. Not with one of ours.
So Maggie stepped in. Rolled up her sleeves, took over like she’s been doing this her whole life. And right now? She’s the only one we trust to keep Doc breathing.
“She better keep holding,” Sin says, quiet but sharp. “Because if she doesn’t…”
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
I step closer and rest a hand on her back. Firm. Solid. Not comfort, just an anchor.
“You need rest,” I say. “And the bike’s not gonna fix itself.”
Sin doesn’t answer.
“Doc would’ve gutted you by now if she saw how behind we are,” I add. “She’d be yelling about spark plugs and balance mods while stitching herself shut.”
That gets a sound out of Bishop. Half laugh, half breath.
“She once threw a wrench at me for skipping an oil flush,” Luca says. “I still have the scar.”
Sin finally cracks the faintest smirk. Barely there but it’s something.
“We’re leaving soon,” Bishop says. “I’ll stay with her. If anything changes, I’ll call.”
Sin runs a hand down Taz’s back but Taz doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.
“Come on,” I say, voice low but firm. “Doc would want us focused on the next race. Not stuck here, waiting for something we can’t change.”
Sin doesn’t move at first. She stays by the bed, eyes locked on Doc’s face like sheer will might pull her back to consciousness. But it won’t. We both know that.
After a long beat, she nods once, sharp, and turns away.
We walk out together, but the weight of leaving her behind drags at every step.
It’s harder than I thought it’d be.
Doc’s always been here. Sharp-tongued. Smarter than all of us. Stitching us together when The Gauntlet tried to tear us apart. She’s not supposed to be the one on that bed. And walking away from her now feels like a betrayal.
But I know staying won’t change what happened.
It won’t help her.
And it won’t stop what’s coming.
The only thing I can do now—the only thing I know how to do, is prep for what’s next. Sharpen the blade. Tighten the bolts. Keep Sin alive and ready.
And when we hit that track again, I’ll get our revenge.
For Doc.
For all of them.
District Three waits.
The Dead Zone.
No lights.
No maps.
No mercy.
A hollowed-out tunnel network built to swallow racers whole. Darkness so thick it becomes a weapon. Concrete so old it remembers every scream. The only way through is forward. The only way out is alive.
The Gauntlet wants blood.
They’ll get it.
And if Jace makes it through The Dead Zone, it’ll only be to die by my hands.