Chapter 19 #2
But this? This fucked-up little unit of misfits and mechanics?
They’d bleed for me.
They already have.
And I’d die for every one of them.
Riot finally steps closer, looming like a storm I don’t have the energy to dodge. I toss him a rag, and he catches it like he saw it coming before I even moved.
He crouches beside me, and the space between us shrinks to nothing. His thigh brushes mine as he starts checking the wiring without a word. Still so fucking silent.
It’s the kind of silence that’s heavy. Loud. Laced with all the shit he won’t say.
I wipe my hands on my pants, then glance at him. “You know,” I say, voice low, not teasing for once. “You don’t have to carry everyone.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s listening. I can feel it.
“Ghost. Luca. Me. We’re not yours to hold up,” I continue. “We can take care of ourselves.”
His jaw tightens.
I keep going.
“And Doc? What happened to her wasn’t your fault. You didn’t fail her.”
Now he does look at me. Eyes sharp enough to gut.
“You need to stop thinking you can protect me from everything,” I say. “Because you can’t.”
He tenses, like his whole body’s fighting the urge to break something.
“I’ve been a dead girl walking since the moment Kane’s men threw me into The Gauntlet,” I murmur, quieter now. “You didn’t make that happen. But you can’t undo it either.”
Silence.
Thick. Coiled.
Then Riot moves, fast, rough, but not cruel. His hand grabs my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His eyes are fire and fury, jaw tight enough to crack.
“You are mine,” he growls. The words are low. Dangerous. “And no one,” he says, voice like gravel and thunder, “not the Syndicate, not Jace, not even that sadistic fuck Kane is taking you from me.” His forehead presses to mine, his breath hot. “You will cross that finish line. With me.”
I swallow hard.
“And when you do,” he adds, softer now, “I’ll finally fucking breathe.”
Something twists in my chest. Not weakness. Not fear.
Just... him.
I nod, just once, because I don’t trust myself to speak.
Then he presses a kiss to my forehead, rough and ungraceful but honest in a way that makes me ache.
We say nothing after that.
Just work.
Side by side, hands greasy, nerves frayed, hearts loaded like live rounds.
Whatever’s waiting in the dark, let it come.
We’re not backing down.
Not now. Not ever.
The last bolt clicks into place a few hours later, and we both sit back, covered in grease and grit.
Then the air shifts.
Boots scuff concrete. Two Syndicate handlers step in from the far corridor—full armor, mirrored visors, rifles slung loose, but fingers twitchy like they’re hoping someone makes a wrong move.
They don’t say a word.
They never do, but they don’t need to. Their presence is enough.
Bishop lobs a ration pouch at my chest without looking up from his toolkit. “Dinner,” he mutters. “Try not to gag.”
I peel the thing open, and the smell hits first—like wet socks soaked in gasoline. “If betrayal had a flavor, this would be it.”
Ghost’s already halfway through some wafer brick that looks like drywall. “Starve or suffer. Pick your poison.”
Luca grins around his teeth, still chewing. “Tastes like regret with a side of drone oil.”
“Y’all are lucky I love you,” Bishop says with mock solemnity. “That was the least moldy option.”
I flick a chunk of congealed something off my lap and glance up. Riot’s next to me, silent as ever. Arms folded, jaw tight, that quiet storm energy rolling off him in waves.
He hasn’t relaxed since this morning.
Probably not since Luma-9.
I elbow him, light. “You always this romantic at dinner?”
He doesn’t look down. “Thinking.”
“Dangerous,” I murmur, licking sauce off my thumb.
That gets his attention. His gaze drops to my mouth like it’s a weapon. Or a trigger.
“Only if I’m thinking about you.”
Heat flares up my neck and I shove another bite in just to avoid saying something that’ll make me sound like I’m catching feelings.
Spoiler: I am.
I nod toward the Syndicate suits hovering by the crates. “Think they’re picturing your corpse or mine?”
“They’re not that brave.”
“And if they are?”
His voice drops lower. “Then I’ll remind them what fear tastes like.”
God, I hate how much I like that.
He tilts his head slightly, signaling, Time to call it a night.
We walk together, shoulder to shoulder, past crates and tools and broken-down bikes, the smell of sweat and metal thick in the air. The other racers track us like wolves scenting blood.
Not curiosity.
Calculation.
We’re the pair to beat.
The ones they whisper about.
The ones who won’t fucking die.
And if we do?
There’s a whole line of assholes waiting to wear our bones like a trophy.
The Syndicate handlers don’t stop us. Just stare. Still hoping for a reason to raise those rifles.
Not today Satan.
Our quarters are another windowless cell tucked into the corner of The Hollow. Concrete walls, one ratty ass cot, and a mounted camera in the corner that hasn’t worked in god knows how long. No heat. No soundproofing.
Fucking Perfect.
Riot locks the door behind us with a sharp click. I toss the half-eaten ration onto the desk and drop onto the cot with a groan.
“This place blows.”
He shrugs off his jacket and sets it neatly on the chair. “Want me to kill someone about it?”
I smirk. “Not yet. But if Voss looks at me sideways again, feel free.”
He steps in close and leans down so he's hovering over me, fingers grazing my jaw as he brushes a bit of grease from my cheek. His touch is gentle, but his presence? Overwhelming. Like everything in him is honed and focused on me.
“You’re mine tonight,” he says, voice low.
I raise an eyebrow. “What—just tonight?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
Just steps between my legs and drops to his knees, like he belongs there. His hands grip my hips, rough and sure, dragging me toward the edge of the cot until the thin frame creaks in protest.
My breath catches. His gaze stays locked on mine—dark, feral, starved.
One hand slips to the waistband of my jeans. Fingers hook in the denim, slow, deliberate, like he’s daring me to stop him.
I don’t.
“Still think I don’t need to protect you?” he mutters, voice gravel low.
I smirk, breathless. “Still think you can?”
He growls, low in his chest, and tugs my jeans down past my hips—slow, steady—exposing skin like he’s peeling away armor.
Across the room, Taz stirs once on her dog bed, then settles with a huff.
She’s used to this.
Riot leans in, mouth hot against my thigh, his hands firm on my waist like I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
I don’t know what this is.
But I know what it means.
And tonight? We don’t talk about surviving. We don’t talk about Kane or the race or the fact that any breath could be our last.
Tonight, I let him take.
And I take just as much.
Because in a few hours, we ride into the dark.
But right now?
Right now, I’m his.