Chapter 21
RIOT
The second the door clicks shut behind her, the garage goes silent.
My pulse is still hammering. Jasper’s hands are white-knuckled on the workbench, veins straining like he’s a second away from wrecking me—or himself.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, savoring the taste still clinging to my tongue, and let a crooked, shit-eating grin curl my lips.
“She tastes like heaven,” I murmur, low and taunting—because I can’t help myself. “No wonder you’re obsessed.”
His head lifts. Jaw tight. He doesn’t bite back—not out loud.
But his eyes? Molten.
“I should break your jaw for touching her,” Jasper growls, voice like gravel dragged across steel. “But I didn’t stop you. Because I needed to see it.”
I arch a brow, swagger closer, arms folded across my chest. “See what? If I could make her fall apart in front of you?”
His nostrils flare, but he shakes his head. “No. If you want her—or if you’re just here to fuck with me.”
That digs under my skin enough to drop the smirk. I meet him head-on. “You think I’d eat her out next to you just for the fuck of it?”
He scowls. “You’ve done worse, Riot.”
air.
But not this time.
“Not her,” I say, heat draining to truth. “Sawyer’s different. You know it. I know it. So quit acting like you’re the only one losing sleep over her.”
Jasper stares at the closed door, her cries still echoing in the air like smoke after a fire. He’s replaying it—her on that bike, mouth open, body shaking for both of us. I almost pity him. Almost.
“She’s not a toy to pass between us,” he says, rough.
“Agreed.” My answer’s immediate. “She won’t survive it if we fuck this up.”
He drags in a breath—long, shaky, scraped from somewhere deep.
“She’s ours now.”
And, fuck, if that doesn’t hit different. The way he says ours—not his. Not mine. Ours.
Something shifts inside me. Not surrender. Not peace. But maybe… understanding. A rivalry with teeth, sure, but a shared obsession all the same.
“Ours,” I echo, voice raw. “But don’t get it twisted—I’m not backing down. I’ll give her everything I’ve got. Every damn time.”
He finally looks at me, fire in his eyes—but it’s not just for me. It’s for her. For whatever the hell we’re about to become.
“Don’t fuck it up, Riot,” Jasper says, laced with threat.
I smirk back, steady. “Right back at you, Reign.”
We stand there, caught between enemies and something closer, breathing the same electric air.
This thing could destroy us.
But it might be the only way we all survive.
SAWYER
After the garage. After Macee’s questions. I need air. Space. Something that feels like sanity.
My feet carry me on autopilot, padding over the dark hardwood.
The house feels alive—like it’s breathing around me—every tall wall and cathedral ceiling heavy with echoes.
Sunlight slants through narrow windows, painting the stone floors in stripes that look more like scars than warmth.
It’s beautiful here. But the beauty that promises secrets.
I pause at a window, fingertips pressing against the cool glass. Outside, the yard stretches wide—wild but manicured, like the woods are always one step from swallowing it whole. Ivy climbs the stone walls. Shadows coil thick beneath the old oaks.
It’s unsettling. Haunted, almost. Like every inch remembers something it won’t share.
And then I see it.
A figure.
Standing at the tree line. Still. Watching.
Every muscle seizes. My lungs forget how to work. Panic sparks fast and electric, my fingers curling hard against the glass, desperate for proof I’m not imagining this.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Gone.
The yard is empty. Shadows unbroken. Not even a breeze stirs the branches.
My pulse hammers in my ears. I force out a shaky breath. It’s nothing. Just my brain. Just old ghosts refusing to stay buried.
Still, I back away from the window. Each step heavier as the stone floors give way to thick, antique rugs that swallow my footsteps. The light changes too—softer, warmer, but older. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s memories.
Black-and-white photographs line the walls. Faces unsmiling, eyes hollow. The silence here feels guarded, and I breathe quieter, afraid to disturb it.
At the end of the hall, a door sits ajar. The hinges groan when I push it open.
Inside, it’s music and memory. Guitars lean against the wall, battered but cherished. A piano waits in the corner, keys yellowed and scarred with ink stains. Shelves sag under notebooks and lyric sheets. Studio headphones sprawl across the desk.
Gold and platinum records crowd one wall, gleaming like trophies, though the shine feels heavy—earned in blood and sleepless nights.
A couch slumps against the far wall, old leather worn soft. The air carries sweat, cedar, and the ghosts of a thousand midnight songs.
I breathe in slowly, chest loosening just a little.
But the back of my neck prickles, anyway.
I don’t know if it’s because this room feels like Jasper—private, dangerous, alive—or because I’m still haunted by what I saw outside.
Or what I think I saw.
I drift closer to the wall, fingers grazing the edges of the plaques. Some are albums. Some are singles. All gleam like trophies, though the shine feels heavy—earned through blood and pain.
Her Last Confessional.
Every single one.
One frame has a photo tucked inside—a younger version of the guys. Wild grins. Untamed hair. They look so happy it almost hurts.
I brush my thumb along the picture when a voice breaks the silence behind me.
“Kind of heavy, isn’t it?”
I jump, spinning on my heel, heart pounding.
Silas stands in the doorway, arms crossed, hair mussed, black tee hanging loose over old joggers. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There’s a gravity to him—an old pain he doesn’t even bother hiding.
“I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say, suddenly feeling small.
He shrugs, stepping inside. “Snooping’s the only way people ever find the truth in this house.”
He moves like he belongs here—not cocky, just… claimed by the place. The air seems to shift around him, weighted with history.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall of gold.
“This was the dream once,” he says quietly, “before the label. Before contracts and drama. Just music. Just us.”
His eyes flick to me, studying. “You like it here?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know. It’s beautiful. But…”
“But it feels haunted?” he finishes, lips barely moving.
I nod. He sees it.
He huffs out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “That’s ’cause it is.”
His gaze settles on the photo, shoulders slumping.
“You mean Jasper?” I ask softly. “Or… all of you?”
Silas’s eyes linger on those grinning faces. “Him. Me. The whole band, if I’m honest.” His voice is rough, carved with regret.
I lean against the old piano, arms folded. “He told me a little. About your mom. The group home. everything that happened with the dealers.”
The air tightens. Silas exhales slowly, scraping against old wounds. But he doesn’t pull back.
“He told you more than he tells most,” he admits, glancing sideways.
“I think he needed to say it out loud,” I whisper. “I’m glad he had you.”
He finally looks at me—really looks. The lines around his eyes deepen, and for a second, he’s not the drummer or the shadow. He’s just a brother who survived for someone else.
“Yeah,” he says, voice thick but steady. “I’m glad I had him too. Even when I wanted to give up.”
Silas studies me for another beat. “You’re good for him. For both of them.”
I duck my head, twisting the sleeves of Jasper’s jacket around my fingers. “I’m not so sure. I’m lost half the time. I don’t know how to be what they need.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to be anything. You already are.”
The words land heavy, squeezing my chest. My breath comes shakily.
“You think they’ll be okay with this?” I ask, daring to glance at him. “With both of them. Sharing.”
A huff escapes him—something between amusement and disbelief. “Sawyer, they’ve survived worse than falling for the same girl. What scares them isn’t your choosing—it’s losing you. Both of them know if they push too hard, they risk that.”
The truth stings. But it soothes too.
I swallow hard. “I’m scared I’ll hurt one of them. Or both.”
“Love usually does,” Silas says, quieter now. He shrugs, looking older than his years. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”
We stand in silence, letting it settle—the weight, the honesty, the reminder that want is never simple.
Then Silas shakes it off, the shadow slipping from his face as he cracks a sly grin. “C’mon. I’m not leaving you to mope in a house full of emotionally constipated men. You look like you need a distraction.”
I laugh—broken but grateful.
Silas tilts his chin, brow quirking. “Ever shot a gun before?”
I blink. “Uh… no?”
“Perfect.” His grin flashes, sharp with mischief. “Let’s go fix that.”
I trail him down a shadowy hallway that spits us onto a sunlit patio, then out into the sprawling yard. The mansion looms behind us—gothic and silent—while a path leads to a clearing I hadn’t noticed before.
A shooting range.
Of course. Rich bastard. I almost laugh out loud.
Target dummies stand in a row, battered and bullet-riddled. A heavy wooden table sits beneath a faded awning, littered with guns, ammo boxes, ear protection. Half outlaw, half military—all chaos.
Silas tosses me a pair of earmuffs. “Brought these out right before I found you. Hope you’re not scared of noise.”
I snort, sliding them on. “You remember I live on a bus with Ash, right?”
He grins, that dry older-brother humor slipping through. Then he grabs a Glock, sliding the mag in with practiced ease.
He stands behind me—close, but not invasive. Steady hands, silent reassurance. Adjusting my stance with gentle taps to my elbows and legs.
“Don’t lock your arms. Shoulders loose. Deep breath in… exhale as you squeeze.” His hand hovers over mine—near, but not touching.
“You ready?”
My hands shake, but I nod. “No. But yeah.”
He chuckles. “Best way to start.”