Chapter 22 #2
I’m still straddling him, legs on either side of his hips, and his hands are already moving, dragging down the back of my thighs, gripping, anchoring.
Then he shifts.
One arm wraps around my waist as he twists, guiding me off his lap and onto the mattress. He lays me down carefully on my side in front of him, like even now—bleeding, stitched, and wrecked, he’s still the one in control. Still the one deciding how this goes.
My head rests against the pillow, breath shallow, body burning.
Riot leans over me, hand sliding down my hip, hooking into the waistband of my leggings.
His fingers tug the fabric down, slowly and deliberately, peeling it off inch by inch like he wants me to feel every second of it. My pulse trips. I lift one leg, then the other, letting him slide them off completely.
He tosses them to the floor like they never mattered.
Then he moves in behind me, molding his body to mine, chest to back. One arm coils around my waist like a steel trap, holding me there. The other slips between my thighs, his hand moving slow, like he has all the time in the world to ruin me.
I gasp, arching back against him.
“That’s what I thought,” he growls into my ear. “Always dripping for me. Even when you’re mouthing me off.”
His hand moves again, this time slower, more teasing. His thumb brushes over my clit and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. My thighs try to close, but his leg is already wedged between them, keeping me open.
He tightens the arm around my ribs, anchoring me to him, and then slides his hand up, slow as sin, wrapping it gently around my throat.
My pulse flutters beneath his grip.
“You gonna ride my fingers like a good girl,” he murmurs, “or do I need to remind you who owns this pussy?”
Before I can answer, he brings his hand up—those same fingers slick with my arousal and presses them hard against my lips.
“Suck, Little Stray.”
The command is low. Final.
I open my mouth, and he shoves them in. Two fingers, rough and coated in me. I moan around them as he presses deep, making sure I taste myself. Making sure I know exactly what I’m doing to him.
His eyes stay locked on mine, watching every flick of my tongue, every hollow of my cheeks like it’s fueling something darker in him.
When he pulls them free, they glisten.
And then he slides them right back between my legs.
Deep, hard, and claiming.
The sound I make isn’t a word—it’s broken, breathy, and edged with frustration.
“You think I can’t fuck you just because I’m bleeding?” he continues, voice pure gravel. “Think that’s going to stop me from making you come?”
His fingers pump deeper, hitting the exact spot that makes my vision blur. His other hand tightens on my throat—not enough to choke, just enough to control.
I grind back against him, chasing every curl of his fingers, every throb of pressure on my clit.
His cock is hard against my ass, still trapped in his pants.
I ride his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me together, the slap of skin and the wet sounds of my arousal filling the dim room. He grunts into my neck, praising me in low, dirty whispers.
“That’s it, Little Stray. Take it. Let me feel you clench around my fingers. Show me how bad you need it.”
His voice burns like gasoline on skin. His teeth scrape the back of my shoulder, breath hot and ragged.
My climax builds fast—too fast, and he knows it.
“Not yet,” he growls, slowing the rhythm.
I whimper as I squirm.
“Riot, please.”
He tightens his hold on my throat, just a little. “You gonna come when I tell you?”
I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, just… don’t stop.”
He thrusts harder.
“Then fucking do it.”
I crash—full body, nerve-scorching release that leaves me shaking against him, thighs trembling, mouth parted in a silent cry. He keeps fucking me through it, pace relentless, until I collapse boneless against his chest.
His hand slides from my throat to my jaw, turning my face toward him. He kisses me, hard and rough, tongue sliding against mine like he needs it to survive.
We breathe each other in.
When he finally stills, his fingers leave me soaked and aching, his arm pulling me closer like he can’t let go.
And maybe he can’t.
I blink slowly, head spinning, sweat cooling on my chest.
He presses his face into my neck.
“I’ll never let anything fucking touch you,” he murmurs. “Not while I’m breathing.”
I don’t answer.
I just grab his bloodied hand, kiss his palm, and hold it to my chest.
Because I believe him.
Even when I shouldn’t.
His breath settles just as my eyes slip shut.
It’s one of those rare moments we never get to keep. The kind with no blades in the dark. No roaring crowds. Just heat, quiet, and sweat.
A knock.
We both freeze.
It’s soft. Almost polite. But in this place, nothing polite ever means anything good.
Riot growls into the back of my neck. “Fuck off.”
Silence.
Then another knock, louder. This time, more urgent.
I jolt, breath still uneven, skin flushed, and thighs slick. My pulse hasn’t evened out yet, and already the world’s clawing its way back in.
I twist, reaching over the edge of the bed for my leggings, crumpled and forgotten where Riot tossed them. I pull them on fast, legs still trembling, hands fumbling at the waistband as I glance over my shoulder.
Riot curses low behind me and sits up, the strain in his body obvious as his stitches pull, but he doesn’t hesitate. He moves like he always does, like pain is a background hum, not a reason to stop.
His chest is bare, wiped clean from earlier, skin still damp where I ran the cloth over him.
But his pants are ruined—black streaked with dried blood and dirt, the fabric wrinkled from how he gripped me through them.
And his cock is still hard, thick and outlined clearly behind the zipper, the imprint unmistakable even in the dim lighting.
He doesn’t care.
He stalks to the door, jaw tight, hair a mess, sweat at his temples, and throws it open like he’s daring whoever’s on the other side to fucking matter.
Ghost stands there. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say a word for a beat too long.
That’s what does it.
The silence.
Riot’s jaw tenses. “This better be good.”
Ghost’s voice is quiet.
“It’s Doc.”
The world sharpens instantly.
Riot goes still.
Not cold. Not angry. Just… blank.
Ghost doesn’t wait for permission. He steps into the room, letting the door shut quietly behind him. His eyes flick to me then lock on Riot, who’s standing right in front of him.
Riot doesn’t move.
Ghost doesn’t dance around it.
“She’s gone.”
The air leaves the room.
Riot doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But I see the way his back tenses, like his spine is bracing for something heavier than impact.
Ghost exhales. “Her blood pressure spiked about thirty minutes ago. They tried everything. Cooling pads, compression, meds. But they couldn’t stop it. She crashed and didn’t come back.”
He reaches into the inside of his jacket and pulls out her med band. The screen flickers weakly, the name barely legible through the dried blood and cracked glass.
He doesn’t try to hand it over. He just holds it. Like it’s a piece of her none of us are ready to let go of.
“She fought hard,” Ghost adds, voice tight. “But her body was already shutting down. They just couldn’t hold it together.”
Riot still doesn’t move.
He stares past Ghost, jaw tight, mouth set in that way that means the next person who tries to touch him might lose their teeth.
I can feel it from here. He’s not going to break. He’s going to bury it. Like he always does. Like he’s done before.
Ghost hesitates, then shifts his weight back toward the door.
“I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. I’ll tell the others.” He leaves the med band on the nearby table. Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. But it may as well slam.
Riot just stands there, staring at the wall like he’s trying to make it explode by force of will.
I move toward him, slow. Every step feels heavier than the last.
He turns on his own. Sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head low. Not bowed. Not broken. Just… burning.
I drop to my knees in front of him. My hands find his thighs. My fingers grip harder than I mean them to. He’s not bleeding anymore. Not on the outside. But I can see it.
The damage is fresh. Deep. Quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Still nothing.
His chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. Too even. Too controlled. I know this version of Riot. And I know what comes next. The grief doesn’t come out in tears or screams. It coils behind his ribs like a weapon waiting for a target.
I move closer, pressing my forehead to his. His hand comes up finally, trailing down my spine, warm and steady. His palm curls against my waist like I’m the only thing keeping him from slipping under.
“I just closed you up,” I whisper, voice catching. “And now you’re gonna fall apart all over again.”
Riot exhales slow, like the words scraped something loose inside him.
“We all are, Little Stray,” he mutters, jaw tight. “Some shit you can’t sew shut.”
He’s not wrong and my chest aches.
I lean in and kiss him softly, lingering. Not to fix anything, but just to stay connected. To remind him I’m still here.
When I pull back, he’s still gripping my waist. Not tight or rough. Just… anchored. Like letting go might be the thing that finally breaks him. And I know he’s not ready.
Not yet.