Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Sienna
Ride - Ciara Ft Ludacris
Jace hits like a spoiled rich boy who’s never been punched in the mouth by a girl who bites.
Which, lucky for him, changed today.
I grin to myself as I scrub the dried blood from my knuckles at the edge of the sink.
My reflection’s a mess—hair wild, sweat-damp, streaks of someone else’s blood across my collarbone—but there’s a glint in my eyes that wasn’t there yesterday.
The kind of glint that says I’m not sorry. Not even a little.
I can still hear the crowd in my head. Screaming. Chanting. Wild with bloodlust while I sat on top of Jace with my gun jammed in his mouth.
And the best part?
He wasn’t looking up at me like he didn’t know what I’d do. He knew. He was crying. Silent. Begging like the little bitch he is.
A shame they dragged him away. I would’ve made it clean. Beautiful, even.
But instead, I’m here. With Riot. And that’s the only thing that makes not pulling the trigger worth it.
I turn toward the bed, where he sits in the low flicker of the overhead bulb, shoulders tense, blood still drying on his skin. Our tiny room smells like iron and oil, metal, sweat, and blood. The kind of scent that sinks into skin and never washes out.
It clings to him but I don’t think he minds.
He’s sitting at the edge of the bed like the fight’s still happening in his head.
One hand rests on his thigh, the other holding a stim packet he hasn’t cracked yet.
His jacket is halfway down his arms, sweat glistening on his chest, and blood stains the band of his pants below where the bullet went clean through his side.
The bandage Luca slapped over it in the pit is soaked through, the edges curling where it’s already saturated. I remember the way he barked at Riot to sit still, how he tore into the med kit without hesitation, shoved gauze into the entry and exit like it would hold. It worked for a while.
But now?
Now the bleeding’s started again. Slower than before, but steady. Pooled dark down his side, tracking the curve of his hip.
It’s too much blood.
More than I’m okay with.
I take him in for a long moment, eyes tracing every shadow of his body, every twitch of tension in his jaw. He looks like he’s unraveling silently. Coming apart at the seams one breath at a time and pretending it’s fine.
He doesn’t look at me.
Not yet.
“You look like shit,” I say as I step toward him, tossing the med kit onto the mattress beside him, my voice sharper than it needs to be, just to keep from sounding worried.
He lets out a grunt that might be a laugh. “Still prettier than Jace.”
“Barely,” I mutter, but my eyes are already locked on the stain blooming along the seam of his shirt. “And Jace wasn’t leaking.”
He turns his head then, just slightly. Just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye. There’s blood on his temple and a cracked split on his bottom lip. He hasn’t cleaned up, hasn’t even tried and something about that—how unlike him it is—twists sharp in my gut.
I crouch in front of him and pop open the med kit. My hands move fast. Faster than I mean them to as I rip open antiseptic packs and tear open gauze. Every move sharper than it needs to be.
I pull out the suture kit, fingers clenched too tightly around it.
“You gonna be a baby about this?” I mutter, tone biting. But it’s covering something else. The kind of fear I can’t say out loud. The kind that’s tangled up in the word almost.
He smirks faintly, but it’s tired. “Probably.”
And just like that, I let myself breathe again.
I peel the bandage off first, slowly and carefully. The gauze sticks, crusted with dried blood, and he grits his teeth as I tug it free. It pulls away with a soft tear revealing the raw line beneath, red and angry-looking.
I soak the cloth in cool alcohol and press it to his side. The blood wipes away in streaks, fresh and wet beneath the dried edge. When I hit the wound directly, he tenses. His hand clamps down on his thigh, jaw locked tight.
“Deep breath,” I murmur.
He grits his teeth. “Just do it.”
I press the gauze deeper, watching his body stiffen. His abs tighten under my fingers, that coil of pain threading through his spine like a fuse being lit.
“That bullet went through clean,” I mutter, inspecting the wound. “Still gonna need a stitch or two. You’re lucky.”
His voice is low, rough, and unapologetic. “I make my own luck.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me pause. I glance up, just as he opens his eyes and looks at me—flat, sure, unwavering.
“I turned into the shot.”
I freeze.
“You what?”
“He was aiming for you.”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t a bullet, like it wasn’t skin and blood and pain. Like protecting me is just instinct.
My throat tightens.
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
He shrugs. Winces when the movement pulls at the wound. But his mouth curves into something sharper than a smile.
“I’d do it again.”
The air between us sharpens.
“I’d do it a hundred fucking times, Little Stray. I’ll take every hit meant for you. You don’t get to bleed while I’m still breathing.”
Something in me stutters, anger and heat and something too deep to name. I hate that he says it like it’s a rule, like it’s already been decided.
And I hate how much I want to believe it.
“That’s not noble,” I say, voice strained. “It’s fucking reckless.”
He leans in slightly, gaze burning through me.
“You think I give a shit?” he growls. “You think I’m gonna watch someone take aim at you and not step in?”
His hand finds my hip—firm, grounding.
“You’re mine to protect. Mine to bleed for. End of fucking story.”
The room feels smaller, heavier. My pulse kicks hard in my throat.
“You’re so—” I break off, teeth clenched. “God, you’re infuriating.”
“And you fucking like it.” His voice drops even lower, all gravel and heat. “Admit it. Knowing I’ll bleed for you, makes you wet.”
I hate that he’s right. Hate the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Hate the flush crawling up my neck because I know he can feel it.
I roll my eyes hard enough to hurt and grab the suture needle.
“Lie back.”
“You’re mad at me,” he says, stretching out anyway, arms behind his head like the wound doesn’t exist.
“I’m mad you have a fucking death wish.”
And I am.
But underneath the anger is something else, something sharp and shaking. Because the image of that moment is stuck behind my eyes. Him twisting the bike. Shielding me. Taking the hit. The way his body jerked when it hit, the sound he made. I didn’t know if he was gonna stay upright.
He saved me. Again.
And it fucking terrifies me how easy he made that decision.
He lies down anyway, arms spread, head tipped to the side and his breath shallow. I straddle his hips carefully, weight balanced off his wound.
He watches me thread the needle and watches me sterilize the wound. His eyes don’t leave my face, even when I press the first stitch through skin.
He flinches and sucks in air.
I pause.
“You good?”
His jaw flexes. “Keep going.”
So I do.
Slow, precise pulls of the thread through flesh. He doesn’t make a sound after that first breath, just lies there under me like I’m sewing pieces of him back together.
When it’s done, I press the gauze pad over the stitches and tape it down.
He catches my wrist. His grip is light, but unyielding.
“You looked fucking incredible,” he mutters, eyes locked on me. “Back there. In the pit.”
“You’re concussed.”
His hand brushes the inside of my wrist slowly. “You were chaos. Bloody, unhinged, fucking unstoppable. I could’ve watched you beat the shit out of him for hours.”
My hair’s still dripping, skin flushed from the heat of a shower that was way too quick to matter.
A towel clings to my damp body, barely covering the bruises and cuts I haven’t had time to think about.
Steam still lingers in the air, but it can’t wash off the exhaustion.
I’m clean, technically—but under the surface, I’m still vibrating, still wrecked from everything that came before.
Yet still, somehow, I’m burning.
I scoot to the side, shooting him a look. “You’ve got a bullet hole in your side, Romeo. Maybe keep it in your pants before your stitches pop and I have to sew you back together again—this time with dental floss.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smirk. Not quite anything soft.
He grabs my wrist—firm but not rough and guides my hand down.
I barely finish the sentence before his hand catches mine and drags it lower.
Beneath the band of his pants. Right to the evidence that he doesn’t give a single shit about timing or stitches.
Hard. Hot. Demanding.
He leans in, breath against my ear, voice dark as sin.
“Too late.”
My heart stutters. My fingers wrap around him automatically, and he groans low and dangerous, like he’s barely holding himself back.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” I mutter, voice raw.
“And you shouldn’t turn me on when I’m bleeding,” he bites back.
“Yet here we are.” Then he’s pulling me forward.
One hard yank and I’m off balance, landing half on top of him as he shifts onto the bed.
My breath catches, but I don’t stop him.
The fabric peels off sticky and hot, blood-smeared and ruined, sliding down my thighs, my calves, until they’re tossed somewhere behind us.
“You’ve got two choices,” he says, voice dark, low, feral. “Let me touch you…” His hand curls around my jaw, guiding my face close to his. His nose brushes mine. “…or I pull my fucking stitches open reminding you who you belong to.”
My breath leaves in one sharp exhale because I know he means it. He’ll tear himself apart for this.
For me.
And what's worse, is I won’t want to stop him.
He sits up with a sharp breath, pushing through the pain like it’s just background noise. His movements are slower than usual—tight, and calculated, but his grip on me is anything but gentle.