Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Chest Thumping with Money
Riot
Riot was walking like a predator, and he knew it.
The realization hit him as he turned onto the hotel’s street, catching his reflection in a shop window. Shoulders rolled forward, hands loose at his sides, eyes constantly scanning. The kind of fluid, dangerous gait that made civilians cross the street and other Alphas assess their odds.
There was another day’s delay at the pharmacy. The clerk’s apologetic shrug had been unconvincing at best. Shipment problems didn’t happen three times in a row—not for custom-ordered medications.
The Syndicate had its fingers in a lot of pharmaceutical supply chains. If he was a betting man, he’d wager a guess that a certain Chimera was behind his sudden inability to get the medication he needed not to rip people apart with his bare hands.
The idea of seeing Ken taken apart joint by joint was suddenly very appealing.
“Hey, you.”
Riot turned toward a middle-aged woman in patchwork clothes with scarred hands and a confident posture that screamed, “Try something.”
“You’re the one with that Elysian missionary,” she continued. “The one everyone treats like dogshit.”
Riot’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
Her expression softened unexpectedly. “That kid’s been trying to help people for months. He gives away his own food, patches up injuries, and never asks for anything back. He’s got a good heart. Rare thing around here.”
Something tight in Riot’s chest eased slightly. She wasn’t just bringing Cass up to talk shit.
“Anyway.” She led him to a small cart of salvaged jewelry. “I got something that might suit him.”
She reached under the display and pulled out a silver circlet—simple, elegant, just a band of metal that would rest across the wearer’s forehead. It caught the late afternoon light and threw it back in soft, warm reflections. “Real silver. It’s a pre-Adjustment piece.”
Cass would look perfect wearing just that circlet and nothing else.
“How much?”
She named a price that was probably triple what it was worth and Riot paid it without haggling.
“Your boy’s lucky,” she said, pocketing the iscs. “Not many Alphas would bother with the trouble of an Elysian missionary.”
“He’s not trouble.”
“No,” she agreed, something knowing in her expression. “Poor thing just needs someone to see him clearly.”
Riot kept turning the circlet over in his hands as he walked back to the hotel, imagining Cass’s reaction. Would those eyes light up? Would he let Riot place it on his head?
By the time he reached the hotel, his hands were shaking and his vision had sharpened. Every scent in the hallway amplified—stale cigarettes, cleaning chemicals, and underneath it all...
Wrong.
Something smelled wrong.
He swung the door open to reveal Cass on the narrow bed, wearing just a thin undershirt and loose cotton pants, golden hair tangled across the pillow. Riot locked the door behind him and moved to the side of the bed, his nose tingling.
That scent—
Riot went rigid.
He knew that scent. Expensive cologne with woodsmoke undertones, and beneath that, the artificial musk of a Chimera projecting dominance.
He’d been intimate with that scent. He had woken up next to it more times than he wanted to remember, back when he and the other Berserkers had been desperate enough and lonely enough to take whatever comfort Ken offered.
Ken. Fucking. Nakamura.
Rage flooded his system so fast his vision hazed gold. His hands dropped to concealed weapons, tactical assessments already running. Ken’s usual haunts. The building’s security detail. How many bodies between Riot and getting his hands around that smug throat.
Find him. Hunt him. Remind him what happens when you touch what’s mine.
“Riot?” Cass’s voice cut through the killing fury. The kid was caught between sleep and waking, reaching out until his fingers closed around Riot’s wrist.
“You’re back.” Relief flooded those fever-bright eyes. “I felt awful and you weren’t here.”
The grip on his wrist was weak and too trusting. Hunt the threat or comfort him. You can’t do both.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, and Cass immediately curled toward him, pressing his face against Riot’s shoulder.
“Someone touched you.” Riot kept his voice steady through sheer will. “While I was gone. I can smell him.”
“Mmm?” Cass nuzzled closer. “I met someone... Ken, I think? He was nice. He helped me when I got dizzy.”
“Cass.” Riot caught his chin, tilting his face up. “What exactly did you tell him?”
Those fever-bright eyes blinked. “He asked questions. About where I was staying, if I was alone...” A pause. “He seemed really interested in if I had someone helping me.”
Gathering intelligence. Confirming what he already suspected. Making sure he knew exactly where to find you when—
“He smelled like firewood,” Cass added, still nuzzling into Riot’s palm. “Not as good as you.”
The casual comparison shouldn’t have made possessive satisfaction bloom in Riot’s chest, but it absolutely did.
“You should get some rest,” Riot managed.
“But—”
“Rest, princess.”
Cass pouted—actually pouted—but subsided against Riot’s shoulder. For a moment, there was blessed silence.
Then: “Riot?”
“Yeah?”
“I brought you something.”
“You brought me something?”
“From the meeting. I thought you might like it.” Cass fumbled toward the nightstand, retrieving something wrapped in a napkin. “They had these at the café, and I know Berserkers don’t get a lot of nice things, so...”
He pressed the napkin into Riot’s hand. Inside was a small pastry, slightly squished.
“It’s honey cake,” Cass said, “Because you smell like strawberries and cream and I thought—I thought maybe you’d like honey too? To go with it? The strawberries, I mean. As a flavor combination.” His brow furrowed. “Does that make sense? I’m not very good at presents.”
Riot stared at the crumbled pastry. He’d been planning murder five minutes ago. Detailed, methodical plans for tracking down Ken Nakamura. Now he was holding a slightly squished honey cake because Cass thought his scent might pair well with it.
“Cass.” His voice came out strange. “You’re in pre-heat. You felt terrible all day. And you... saved me a pastry?”
“You do so much for me,” Cass said simply. “I wanted to do something for you.” He paused. “Do you not like honey?”
“I like honey.”
“Oh good.” Cass relaxed against him. “You should eat it before it gets more squished. I sat on it a little bit on the way back. On accident.”
This is how I die. Not in combat, not from Berserker mod decay, but because an idiot Omega saved me a pastry he accidentally sat on.
Riot ate the honey cake. It was stale and tasted like Cass had been carrying it in his pocket for hours.
It was the best thing he’d ever eaten.
“Good?” Cass asked hopefully.
“Yeah, princess.” Riot’s chest felt too full. “It’s good.”
Cass smiled and pressed closer. “I’m glad. You deserve good things. Even if you are a scary Berserker.”
Riot’s free hand found Cass’s hair without conscious decision and Cass made a soft, pleased sound.
I could do anything to him right now. He’d let me.
“Riot?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re petting my hair.”
“...Is that a problem?”
“No.” He yawned. “It feels nice. Keep doing it.”
He’s going to destroy me without even trying.
The circlet was a warm weight in Riot’s pocket. He didn’t take it out.
Cass shifted a few times, tensing with discomfort, but then his breathing evened out within minutes.
Riot sat perfectly still, one hand in Cass’s hair, the other curled into a fist. Ken’s scent was fading, slowly being replaced by theirs—strawberries and cream mixing with caramel and cinnamon.
It smelled right. It smelled like theirs.
I’m so fucked.
He ran through threats while Cass slept.
Ken Nakamura, using old intimacy as leverage, escalating recruitment attempts, was now marked for a very uncomfortable conversation.
The Syndicate’s pharmaceutical interference was designed to keep Riot unstable and desperate.
The mission deadline that Cass talked about, the one Riot could see weighing on him more each day.
And underneath all the tactical planning, the hunger that wouldn’t quiet.
Mine.
He closed his eyes and held on.