Riot (Iron Reapers MC #9)

Prologue

ROMAN “RIOT” KOVACS

The night of the hit on Volkov

I kick the back door open hard enough that the frame splinters. The room beyond is pitch black except for one weak bulb swinging from the ceiling. Smells like damp concrete, rust, and fear. The kind of fear that’s been sitting in a body too long.

Gun up, I sweep the space fast. Empty shelves. Broken crates. Then I see her.

She’s chained to the far wall, wrists above her head, links bolted into the brick.

Thin gray dress torn at the hem. Bare feet black with dirt.

Dark hair hanging in her face like a curtain.

She’s shaking, but not crying. Not anymore.

Her eyes are open, locked on me the second I step into the light.

Wide. Terrified. But not surprised. Like she’s been waiting for the next monster to walk through that door.

I lower my Glock a fraction. “Hey. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Her lips part. No sound comes out at first. Then a whisper, accent thick, voice cracked from disuse. “Please… don’t.”

I holster the gun slow, palms out. “I’m Riot. With the Iron Reapers. We’re here for Volkov. He’s dead. You’re getting out.”

She blinks once. Slow. Like she’s trying to decide if the words are real or another trick.

I move closer, careful. No sudden shit. Her breathing picks up the nearer I get.

Chest rising and falling too fast. When I’m close enough to see the raw skin under the cuffs, the bruises on her arms, the way her knees are buckling but she’s still forcing herself to stand, something in my chest twists hard.

I reach for the chain. She flinches so violently the links rattle.

“Easy,” I murmur. “Just checking how they’re attached.”

She doesn’t answer. Just watches me with those huge dark eyes.

Bolt’s rusted but solid. I pull my knife, jam the blade into the loop, twist. Metal groans. One more hard yank and the chain snaps free from the wall. Not the cuffs. Those are locked. But at least she can lower her arms.

She does. Slowly. Like they don’t belong to her anymore. Hands trembling. Wrists bloody and swollen.

I shrug out of my cut, yank my hoodie off, leave the cut on. Drape the hoodie over her shoulders. It swallows her. She clutches it like a lifeline.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

She nods once. Tries to take a step, but her legs give out.

I catch her before she hits the floor. One arm under her knees, the other around her back. She’s light. Too light. Bones sharp under skin. She goes rigid in my hold, breath hitching.

“I’ve got you,” I say low. “Not letting go till you’re safe.”

She doesn’t fight. Just curls into my chest, face buried against my throat. Small hands fist my shirt. She’s shaking so bad her teeth chatter. I carry her out. Fast. Through the warehouse. Past bodies. Past blood. Past the smell of gunpowder and death.

Outside, the vans are idling. Lucky’s already loaded in the back, bleeding out, Switch pressing on his chest. Mason’s barking orders.

I climb into the second van, still holding her. Dagger glances over from the driver’s seat, sees her, doesn’t ask questions. Just floors it. If anyone understands, it's him. He saved his own wife from a fucked up trafficking ring.

She’s quiet the whole ride. Face tucked into my neck. Breathing shallow. Every bump makes her flinch.

I keep one hand on her back, rubbing slow circles. “You got a name?”

Silence for so long I think she won’t answer. Then, barely an audible “Anya,” falls from her lips.

“Anya,” I repeat. “I’m Riot. You’re safe now. Nobody’s touching you again.”

She doesn’t reply. Just tightens her grip on my shirt.

At the hospital they try to take her from me. The nurse reaches for her. Anya makes this small, panicked sound and buries deeper into my chest.

I glare at the nurse. “She stays with me till she says otherwise.”

They back off and get her on a gurney. I stay right beside it, hand on her ankle so she knows I’m there. Doctors swarm. IVs. Questions in soft voices. She answers in whispers. Russian first, then broken English when they switch.

Malnourished. Dehydrated. Bruises in different stages. Old scars on her thighs and back. My jaw locks so hard I taste blood.

They clean her wrists. Wrap them. Give her a hospital gown. She won’t let go of my hoodie. Keeps it clutched to her chest like armor.

When they finally clear her to a room, I follow. Sit in the chair beside the bed. She watches me the whole time. Eyes huge. Waiting for the catch.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But you’re not going back there. Not ever. Club’s got a safe house. You stay as long as you need. Or longer. Your call.”

She swallows. Voice barely there. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why help me?”

I look at her. Really look. The way she’s curled on her side, knees to chest, hoodie drowning her. The way she’s still shaking even under blankets. The way she trusts no one but still hasn’t told me to leave.

“Because I know what it feels like to think nobody’s coming,” I say. “And because you deserve better than chains and dark rooms.”

Her eyes fill. One tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away. I reach over slowly. Give her time to pull back. She doesn’t. I brush the tear off with my thumb. “You’re safe, Anya. I swear it on my patch.”

She nods once. Small. Then closes her eyes. Exhausted. Spent.

I stay in the chair all night. Back aching. Eyes burning. Watching her sleep. Watching her chest rise and fall. Making sure no one comes through that door who isn’t supposed to.

I look at Anya again. Sleeping. Safe. For the first time in who knows how long. I lean back in the chair, cross my arms.