Ruined By Raider Kings (The Raider Kings #3)

Chapter 1

VALENTINA

The bike dies in the driveway at midnight.

I kill the engine but my hands won't let go. They're locked around the handlebars, white-knuckled, shaking so violently the chrome vibrates beneath my palms. My lungs pull air in jagged gasps that stop halfway down. Everything inside me is screaming.

The memory is there now—complete, vivid, unavoidable. Marcus's hand at my throat. The pipe cold in my palm. The swing. The crack. His body dropping. Blood spreading dark and thick across concrete.

I killed him.

The thought loops, relentless. I killed Xavier's brother.

I took a life and forgot about it, buried it so deep in my psyche that it took Talia's whisper to unlock it.

Because of you, I finally get to avenge my twin.

Those words, spoken with such certainty, such knowledge, broke open something I'd kept sealed for months.

And now I can't stop seeing it. Can't stop feeling the weight of the pipe in my hand, the resistance when it connected, the sickening give of skull beneath metal.

The porch light snaps on. Motion sensor. The front door slams open and Zay fills the frame—barefoot, shirtless, phone pressed to his ear. His eyes find me and something breaks across his face. Relief. Anger. Fear. All of it at once.

"She's here," he says into the phone, voice rough. Then louder, sharper: "Where the fuck have you been?"

I swing off the bike. My legs buckle the second my feet hit pavement. I catch the seat before I hit concrete completely, knees slamming down hard enough to send pain shooting up my thighs. The physical pain is almost a relief—something real, immediate, that isn't the memory of what I did.

He's already moving—four long strides across the driveway, hands reaching for my elbows to pull me up.

"Val—"

"Don't." The word rips out of me, raw and desperate. "Don't touch me."

He freezes, hands hovering an inch from my skin. His eyes scan my face, my hands, searching for visible damage. Looking for blood or bruises or signs of a fight. He won't find any. The damage is all inside.

"Six hours," he says, and his voice is shaking now too. "Six hours. No call, no text, nothing. Asher's been driving the perimeter like a madman. I thought—" His voice cracks. "I thought they took you. I thought you were dead."

"I needed air." The lie tastes like ash and copper. Like blood.

"Bullshit." His voice drops, dangerous and low. "You went to see them. The Vipers."

Not a question. A statement. Because of course he knows. Zay always knows.

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because what do I say?

That I went to get Talia back and she stayed?

That she whispered the truth in my ear and unlocked memories I wish had stayed buried forever?

That I'm standing in this driveway at three in the morning trying not to fall apart because I just remembered killing someone?

That I'm a killer?

"Valentina." Zay's voice cuts through the spiral. "Look at me."

I can't. If I look at him, he'll see it. He'll see what I did written on my face, in my eyes, in the way I can't stop my hands from shaking. He'll know I'm a monster.

Another wave of nausea hits. My stomach lurches violently. I turn, barely make it to the grass before I'm retching, heaving up nothing because there's nothing left inside me. I haven't eaten since—when? Yesterday morning? The day before?

Zay's hand hovers near my back, not quite touching but present. "Easy. Just breathe."

I can't breathe. Every inhale brings more images.

Marcus backing me into the alley. His hand on my throat—not squeezing but threatening, making it clear he could if he wanted to.

His voice in my ear saying things that made my skin crawl, things about what he wanted to do to me, what Xavier couldn't stop him from doing.

Then the pipe. Cold metal. Heavy. My fingers closing around it because there was nothing else, no other weapon, no other way out.

The swing. Desperate. Terrified. Purely reactive.

The sound. Oh God, the sound. Wet and final. The kind of sound you can't unhear.

His eyes widening. Surprise. Then nothing. Just empty.

His body crumpling. Limbs at wrong angles. Blood pooling faster than I thought possible, spreading across rain-slicked concrete in a dark mirror.

Self-defense or not, I killed him. I took Xavier's brother and I buried the memory so deep I forgot I did it.

"Inside," Zay says, voice firm but gentle. "Now. Before someone sees."

My legs won't hold. I try to stand and they give out completely. He reaches for me and this time I let him because the alternative is staying on my knees in the driveway, coming apart atom by atom while the neighbors watch.

He gets me upright, one arm around my waist, taking most of my weight. I lean into him because I have no choice, and we make it three stumbling steps toward the house before the door bangs open again.

Asher—fully dressed in tactical gear, armed to the teeth, jacket half-zipped like he threw it on while running. He takes one look at me and goes completely, utterly still. Not the frozen stillness of surprise, but the predatory stillness of someone calculating threat levels and exit strategies.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes.

"She won't talk," Zay says, voice tight.

Asher's eyes narrow, scanning me from head to toe with clinical precision. " The deal is I go with you, and then you disappear after meeting with the fucking Vipers. We couldn’t find you. Where were you?"

"I already asked," Zay mutters. "Got nowhere."

They're bracketing me now, one on each side, and it should feel safe but instead it feels like a trap. Like walls closing in. Like I'm about to be buried alive under the weight of questions I can't answer because answering means admitting what I did.

"Get her inside," Asher says, voice clipped and controlled. "Before someone sees and starts asking questions we don't want to answer."

They guide me through the door into the kitchen.

The lights are too bright—everything's too bright, too sharp, too real after the darkness of the ride home.

The refrigerator hums its monotonous drone.

The clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks—each second a hammer blow against my skull.

My heartbeat crashes against my ribs like it's trying to escape my body entirely.

Zay closes the door behind us. Locks it with a decisive click. Moves to the window, checks the street, pulls the curtain shut. Standard security procedure but it makes the kitchen feel smaller, more confined.

Asher leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, posture deceptively casual. But his eyes track every movement, every breath, cataloging and calculating. I've seen him look at enemies this way, measuring them for weaknesses.

"What happened?" he asks, voice level.

"Nothing," I say automatically. The lie comes easily now, worn smooth from repeated use.

"Try again," he says flatly.

I drop into a chair at the kitchen table, elbows on wood, head in my hands. The images won't stop. They loop, relentless, unavoidable. The pipe. The swing. The crack. The blood. Over and over and over until I want to claw the memories out of my skull.

Asher moves to the sink. Water runs, too loud in the silence. A glass fills. He crosses back, sets it in front of me with a soft clink of glass on wood.

"Drink," he says.

I don't move. Can't move. I'm frozen, stuck in the memory of Marcus's eyes going empty.

He crouches beside my chair, bringing himself to eye level. "Val. Look at me."

I keep staring at the glass instead. Watch condensation bead on the surface, roll down in slow rivulets like tears.

"Drink," he repeats, softer this time. Almost gentle. "Please."

I pick up the glass with both hands. It takes both hands to keep it steady enough to bring to my lips. Water sloshes, threatens to spill. I manage to drink a little without dropping it but it tastes like nothing—no flavor, no temperature, just wet.

Zay pulls out the chair across from me. The legs scrape against the tile, too loud. He sits, leans forward, elbows on knees. "What did they say to you?"

"Nothing important." My voice sounds distant, hollow, like it's coming from someone else entirely.

"Valentina—"

"Talia's staying with them," I interrupt, because I can give them this much truth. "She's not coming back."

Silence. Heavy and suffocating. The kind of silence that presses down on your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

Then Asher stands slowly, controlled. Every movement deliberate. "Why?"

I shake my head. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Zay says firmly, intensity bleeding into his voice. "It matters. She's eighteen. She's Ash’s baby sister. She's family. So yes, it fucking matters why she chose them over us."

I can't tell them. Can't say the words. Can't admit that Talia stayed because she knows what I did, that she's using my secret as leverage, that the Vipers now have ammunition to destroy everything we've built.

Once I tell them I killed Marcus, everything changes. Once they know, there's no going back. They'll look at me differently. They'll wonder what else I'm capable of. They'll question every decision I've made as interim president.

And Xavier—God, Xavier will never forgive me.

"She made her choice," I say instead, pushing the glass away. Water sloshes over the rim, pools on the table. "That's all."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Asher says, jaw tight. "Did they hurt you?"

"No."

"Did they threaten you? Are they threatening her?" Asher spits out the questions so fast I shake my head no before the answer fully forms.

"No, and no."

"Then what the hell happened in there?" His voice sharpens, frustration breaking through his control. "You left here fine. Determined. Ready to bring Talia home. You came back looking like you've seen a ghost. So I'm going to ask you one more time: what happened?"

I am a ghost. I'm the thing that kills and forgets.

The words sit on my tongue but I swallow them back. "I'm just tired," I lie. "It's been a long night. She said she's staying. She was—firm about it. There's nothing more to tell."

Neither of them believes me. I can see it in the way they exchange glances, in the concern etched into their faces, in the way Zay's fingers drum against his thigh—a nervous tic he only does when he's deeply worried.

But they don't push. Not yet. Maybe they sense I'm barely holding it together, that one more question might shatter me completely.

"You should get some rest," Zay says carefully, like he's talking to someone who might break. "We all should. We can figure out the Talia situation in the morning when everyone's thinking clearly."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Stand on shaking legs that barely support my weight. Everything feels wrong—my body, my mind, the air around me. Like I'm operating machinery I don't know how to control anymore.

I make it to the stairs, gripping the banister like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Each step feels monumental, impossible. My legs are lead weights. My lungs won't pull in enough air.

By the time I reach the bathroom at the top of the stairs, I'm barely holding it together.

I close the door. Lock it with shaking fingers. Lean against it and slide down until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor.

The memories won't stop. They play on a loop, crystal clear now, no longer fragmented or hazy.

I told him no. Begged him to stop. Tried to push past him. He grabbed me harder. Pushed me against the brick wall. His other hand started pulling at my clothes.

The pipe was on the ground. Construction debris from the renovation next door. Rusted metal, heavy, forgotten.

My fingers closed around it. Pure instinct. Pure survival.

I swung. Didn't think. Didn't plan. Just swung with every ounce of desperate strength I had.

He dropped.

And I ran. Left him there in the rain and the blood and ran until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't remember.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to force the images away, but they're burned into my brain now. Permanent. Unavoidable.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time doesn't work right anymore. Nothing works right anymore.

Finally, I force myself to stand. Turn on the faucet. Scrub my hands under scalding water even though they're clean, have been clean for months. But I can still feel it—the sticky warmth of blood, the weight of what I did, the knowledge that I'm a killer.

I splash water on my face. It drips down my neck, soaks into Xavier's hoodie—the one he gave me months ago that still smells like leather and smoke and him. The one I'm going to have to face him in while lying about murdering his brother.

I look at the stranger in the mirror. Hollow eyes. Pale skin. Guilt carved into every feature. I look like someone carrying secrets that are eating them alive.

Because I am.

I strip off my ruined clothes, the ones that smell like the Viper compound and fear. Change into clean jeans and a black t-shirt. Pull Xavier's hoodie back on because I need something of his, some reminder that he exists and he's real and maybe—maybe—we can survive this.

A knock at the door makes me freeze.

My heart hammers. For one irrational second I think it's the police, that somehow they know, that Talia told them, that this is it.

"Val?" Zay's voice, muffled through the wood.

I take a breath. Force my hands to stop shaking. Arrange my face into something neutral, something that won't give me away. The mask I've been wearing for months without knowing it.

"Yeah?" I call back, trying to sound normal. Tired but normal.

Silence. Then: "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Just—just a minute."

I run my fingers through my hair. Check my reflection one more time. The mask holds. Barely. But it holds.

I unlock the door and open it.

Zay stands there, phone in his hand, expression unreadable. There's something in his eyes I can't quite identify. Something between hope and dread.

"What's wrong?" I ask, even though everything's wrong. Everything's been wrong since I remembered.

He looks at me for a long moment. Studies my face like he's memorizing it. Then quietly, carefully, like he's afraid the words might break me:

"Xavier's awake."

My heart drops.