Page 52 of Riot

Riot

The room had settled into that strange stillness that only came after a long day. Not silence. Silence implied emptiness. This was something softer. The slow turn of the ceiling fan. The distant creak of old wood easing against itself. Calvin's breathing, steady and deep beside me.

I lay on my side, watching him.

Moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, catching on the curve of his cheek and the loose strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He'd finally stopped carrying the day in his face. Whatever dreams had found him, they were gentler than the hours he'd left behind.

Today felt impossibly far away now.

The attack. The fear that had torn through me the moment I read that text. Calvin’s buried grief that had finally cracked open.

He wasn’t just a part of my life. Calvin was the axis my entire world seemed to spin around. I wanted to hold his past, his future, everything that he carried.

My unicorn.

I let my eyes linger on him for another moment, memorizing the sight the way I always seemed to.

Then I exhaled slowly and turned my attention toward the dark waiting beyond the bedroom door.

The Iron Vendetta was still a problem, but they were tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight, Miguel was my only focus.

Holler watched me approach, taking a lazy drag of his cigarette. “We doin’ this?”

Sledge and Deadeye joined us by the sliding glass door.

“Keep your head on a swivel.” Crowbar appeared by the entrance to the kitchen, toothpick between his lips. “Never underestimate a human, especially one jacked in the head.”

“Thanks, mom.” He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.

“I’m all daddy vibe.” Crowbar flexed.

I rolled my eyes. “Save it for Spencer.”

We rode through streets gone quiet with the late hour. My wolf pressed against the inside of my skin, demanding blood, demanding retribution for what had been done to Calvin. Keeping it leashed took effort. Keeping my hands steady on the handlebars took more.

Ramos had given us the address without hesitation. A rental house on the east side of Temptation, tucked between a vacant lot and a boarded-up shoe store. Miguel had been staying there for months, apparently. Long enough to establish patterns, feel comfortable, and make a mistake.

Holler signaled from my right, pointing toward a side street. I nodded and followed him off the main road. The engine idled beneath me for a moment, and then I cut the ignition. Holler and Deadeye did the same, the three of us coasting the last few feet to the curb before killing the lights.

We parked three blocks away, tucked between a rusted sedan and an overgrown hedge that hadn’t seen a trimmer in months.

The neighborhood was quiet.

I swung off the bike, my boots landing soft on the pavement.

It was a squat ranch house with faded beige siding and a carport instead of a garage. No vehicle in the driveway. No lights were on in the front rooms. A single lamp glowed somewhere toward the back, visible through a gap in the curtains.

Holler moved up on my left. Deadeye flanked right.

I raised two fingers then pointed toward the house.

Deadeye acknowledged the signal with a nod and melted into the darkness.

We approached from the side yard, staying low where the neighbor’s fence cast long shadows. The grass crunched underfoot. Dry. Dead. No one had watered it in weeks. The smells of hot asphalt and someone’s neglected garbage can reached me, making my nose twitch.

At the corner of the house, I stopped.