Page 27 of Riot’s Revenge

As he spoke, I found myself trying to picture it. A little boy growing up in a motorcycle clubhouse wasn’t exactly a normal childhood, but neither was being abandoned by your mother and raised by an entire club of bikers.

“He grew up at the clubhouse?”

Riot nodded. “Clubhouse. Garage. Church. That’s all he ever knew.”

For the first time since the conversation started, a genuine smile appeared on his face. It wasn’t the amused smirk he usually wore or the sarcastic grin he pulled out whenever he was being difficult, it was smaller and completely unguarded.

“He spent years following everybody around. Couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. Always asking questions. Always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.”

I laughed. “Sounds exhausting.”

“He was exhausting. Still is.”

The affection beneath the complaint was impossible to miss.

“He used to steal tools from the garage.”

“Did you stop him?”

A short laugh escaped Riot. “No. I taught him which ones were worth stealing.”

That surprised a genuine laugh out of me.

For a moment, we sat there smiling at each other, and I found myself wondering how many people ever got to see this side of him. Most of the world probably saw the tattoos, the scars, and the reputation. They saw the biker, the fighter, and the man who looked dangerous enough to make strangers cross the street. What they didn’t see was the man beneath all of that—the affection that crept into his voice whenever he talked about people he cared about, the pride he felt for the younger members of the club, and the fierce loyalty that seemed woven into every part of him.

The more I learned about Riot, the more I realized how much went on beneath the surface. Every conversation seemed to reveal another piece of him that didn’t fit the image I’d built in my head when we’d first met. If I was being honest with myself, that was becoming a problem. Because the more I saw those pieces, the harder it became to remember all the reasons I was supposed to keep my distance.

12

MARIA

By the time I unlocked my apartment door, I was already regretting letting Riot come upstairs. Over the last few weeks, spending time with him had become too easy. Somewhere between late-night food runs, sarcastic text messages, and him appearing outside the clinic whenever I looked ready to collapse, Riot had started slipping into my routine. Still, I found myself unlocking the door and hoping he wouldn’t notice the state of my apartment.

The second I stepped inside, I knew that hope had been misplaced. Textbooks covered every available surface. Flashcards were scattered across the coffee table and half the floor. Laundry occupied the armchair, and several abandoned coffee mugs sat around the room.

Before Riot could say anything, I pointed a warning finger in his direction. “I’ve been busy.”

His gaze traveled slowly around the room before settling back on me. “I can see that.”

“Exams.”

The kitchen tap chose that exact moment to drip loudly into the sink.

Riot’s attention shifted immediately toward the kitchen.

I closed my eyes. “No.”

“No what?”

“Whatever thought just entered your head.”

A look of amusement flickered across his face. “I haven’t said anything.”

Unfortunately, I already knew exactly what was going to happen next. Five minutes later, Riot was stretched out on his back beneath my sink while I leaned against the counter and questioned every decision that had led me to this moment.

“This thing’s been dripping for weeks.” He muttered.

“I’ve been busy.”