Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Sienna
Lights Down Low - Maejor
We pull into the lot like a convoy of ghosts—tired, wired, and far too used to blood on our boots.
The motel looks like it gave up on trying decades ago. Neon sign flickering like it’s choking on its last breath. Paint peeling. Windows grimy. A cigarette graveyard litters the curb. One wrong turn and we’d be in a horror movie. Perfect.
Concrete crunches beneath my boots as I swing off Riot’s bike and roll my shoulders.
My ass is numb, spine kinked, hair wind-whipped into a mess of knots and sweat.
I yank off my helmet and shake out the snarl, fingers combing through the tangles like I can scrub away the tension crawling up my neck.
I swing off the bike and immediately wince, legs stiff, ass completely numb.
“Shit,” I mutter, stretching my back. “I can’t feel my legs. That ride wrecked me.”
Bishop slings a duffel over his shoulder and smirks. “You gonna be able to walk, or should I grab you a cane, Grandma?”
I smirk, cocky as hell. “Please. I’ve never ridden anything that leaves me unable to walk.”
“Yet,” Riot drawls from behind me.
I turn and there he is, leaning against the bike like he owns the fucking planet, cigarette between his lips, arms crossed, smug carved into every inch of him.
“I seem to recall a certain night in the Verge,” he says. “Strip club. Neon lights. You couldn’t even hold yourself up halfway through. Pretty sure I’ve already beaten that record but I’m happy to try again.”
Heat flashes up my neck. “You’re such a dick.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining then.”
Luca groans. “Please, for the love of what’s left of this world, get a room.”
“I plan on it,” Riot smiles, all teeth.
I shove past him, pretending the grin pulling at my mouth doesn’t exist as Ghost mutters something about setting himself on fire.
The motel ahead looks like every bad decision ever made had a baby. Cracked stucco, a flickering neon sign that barely spells SUNN—ST MOTOR INN, and a pool that’s more swamp than water. A palm tree leans like it's given up hope, and the whole place smells like mildew, rust, and cigarette ghosts.
The Syndicate’s already posted up—handlers at every corner, watching like wolves in suits.
The ride might’ve felt like freedom. But this? This is the calm before the slaughter.
Drones buzz overhead, low and slow, watching. Recording. Always watching. One of the handlers—mid-thirties, shaved head, no soul in his eyes—starts handing out keycards like he’s doing charity. No eye contact. No words. Just a flick of the wrist and a sneer.
“Room twelve,” he grunts, handing me ours.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” I deadpan.
He doesn't respond. Just moves on.
Ghost gets one with a quiet nod. Taz growls low at the handler’s retreating back before hopping off the bus and trotting toward him.
“Uh-uh,” I call. “No murdering handlers, Taz. Not yet.”
She trots back, tail swishing, clearly unimpressed with the accommodations. Ghost crouches beside her, rubbing behind her ears.
A Syndicate handler steps off the bus, clipboard in hand, looking like he’s two seconds from getting decked by someone.
“Carter and Vega, room six. Bishop and Luca, room nine. Ghost, you’re in Room three. Alone.”
Ghost raises a brow. “Alone?”
I glance down at Taz, who’s still pacing in tight, anxious circles. “She should go with you.”
Ghost kneels, rubbing a hand along her neck. “Guess you’re with me tonight, girl. We’ll set up the drone rig and watch the feed.”
Taz huffs and leans into him, tail finally swaying.
Riot exhales smoke through his nose and cuts his gaze to me. “You sure you’ll be okay without your foot-warmer?”
I smirk, stepping past him. “You’ll just have to figure out a way to keep me warm.”
His head tilts, the corner of his mouth lifting into something dark and amused. “Yeah? I can do that. Besides…” He flicks ash from his cigarette and lowers his voice. “I’ve got a challenge to beat.”
I arch a brow, biting back my grin. “Cocky much?”
“Confident,” he mutters. “Big difference.”
Across the lot, Bishop swings his duffel over his shoulder and heads toward the motel doors. “Let’s go, lover boy. And you better not be a blanket hogger.”
Luca blinks. “Wait—what? There’s only one bed?”
Bishop grins. “Do you wanna be the big spoon, or the little spoon?”
“I hate you.”
“You say that now. Wait ’til you find out I sleep naked.”
“Like fuck you do.” Luca looks around, desperate. “Hey Ghost, can I crash with you?”
Ghost doesn’t even look up from his data pad. “Nah, me and Taz already called dibs. Try not to die in your sleep.”
Bishop slaps Luca on the back as they walk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep you warm.”
Luca groans. “I swear to god, if you touch me, I’m setting the bed on fire.”
“You’re lighting a lot of candles for someone playing hard to get.”
The rest of us fall in behind them, boots crunching gravel as the Syndicate handlers track every step. Their rifles hang loose, their gazes don’t.
We haven’t even made it inside, and its already clear, this is not a place you stay.
It’s a place you survive.
Room nine is exactly what I expected—stained grey carpet. A bed that might collapse if you breathe too hard. A busted TV with a missing remote. The only redeeming feature? A tiny coffee maker in the corner like a trophy from some forgotten war with a few small packets of instant coffee next to it.
“Dibs on that in the morning,” I say, pointing.
“Didn’t realize we were fighting over coffee now.”
“Only when it’s the last good thing in the room.”
He dumps his gear on the floor and stretches, shirt rising just enough to show the lines cut into his hips. My mouth goes dry.
The bed creaks as I test it, bouncing slightly. “Well, it’s a double. We won’t have to fight for space tonight.”
“Who said I planned on giving you any?”
I glance over my shoulder and catch the look in his eye—lazy, lethal, and dripping with heat. My pulse stutters.
Fuck it.
I lock the door behind us and turn to find him already stripping off his jacket, stretching out like he owns the world.
Riot drops onto the bed with a grunt, arms behind his head, ankles crossed. Relaxed. Arrogant. Completely infuriating. That fucking smirk dances on his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and I’m done pretending he doesn’t.
I toe off my boots, shrug out of my hoodie, and cross the room slowly. Controlled. Letting every move be deliberate.
His eyes track me, a lazy heat simmering behind them.
“Something on your mind, Little Stray?” he asks, smug as hell.
“I think you owe me,” I say, stopping at the foot of the bed.
He lifts a brow. “For what?”
“For making me endure that ride.” I roll my neck, slow and dramatic. “I can’t feel my ass. Or my legs. And I do remember you saying before we left that you could help me out with that.”
“Maybe I did.” He exhales, eyes narrowing. “But even physical therapy isn’t free, sweetheart. What are you gonna do for me?”
I climb onto the bed, swing one leg over his hips, and settle onto his lap like I was made to fit there.
“I can think of a few things you might like.”
I grind my hips, slow and purposeful, dragging myself over the hard line beneath his jeans. His breath punches out sharp, and his hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating whether to grab me or let me keep teasing.
“You trying to start something, Little Stray?”
I roll my hips again. “I plan on finishing it, too.”
That’s all it takes. His hands snap up to my waist, fingers digging into my hips like he owns me.
Like he always has. His eyes are molten steel, locked on mine as I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor.
His gaze drags down, slow and hungry, then lifts back to my face with that look—that cocky, possessive heat that lights my veins on fire.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough. “You do this on purpose.”
“What, breathe?”
His smirk twitches. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Then stop me.”
He surges up and crushes his mouth to mine, hands dragging down my spine as he rolls us over, pinning me to the bed. His weight feels like gravity. Like punishment and promise all at once. Our teeth clash, tongues war, and every breath is a dare.
I yank his shirt off over his head, running my hands down his chest, over the scar carved just above his hip, the muscle that twitches when I trace it slow. He hisses through his teeth.
“Gonna break me, Riot?”
He growls, teeth scraping the shell of my ear. “You’re the one grinding on me like a fucking tease. Don’t whine when I bite.”
“I don’t whine,” I pant, dragging my nails down his back. “I beg.”
“Even better.”
He dips down and kisses the curve of my throat, sucking hard enough to bruise. I arch up, pressing against him, every nerve ending screaming for more. My body feels molten, wired to his. And when he slides down my body, dragging my shorts off with one rough tug, I swear I forget how to breathe.
He settles between my thighs like he belongs there.
Because he does.
Riot parts me with two fingers, slow and unhurried. “Fuck, Sin… you’re soaked.”
“Then do something about it.”
He grins wickedly. “Gladly.”
His mouth replaces his hand, and I jolt, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair as he licks me slowly. One long drag of his tongue, and I’m shaking. Moaning. Writhing. He devours me like he’s starving and I’m the only meal that’s ever mattered.
When he adds a finger, then two, curling them just right while his tongue circles my clit, I shatter, crying out his name, thighs clenching around his head. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking me with his fingers, dragging the orgasm out until I’m twitching beneath him.
“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking wrecked already.”
“Not even close,” I pant, yanking him up by his shoulders. “I want more.”
He kisses me hard, letting me taste myself on his lips. Then he falls back onto the bed, arms behind his head like he’s daring me. That fucking smirk curls at his mouth.