Page 65 of Riot’s Revenge

Riot stopped a few feet away, chest rising hard beneath his kutte, jaw visibly tight like he was trying and failing to hold himself together. “You in there every morning now?”

I stared at him in complete disbelief. “That’s what you chased me outside to ask?”

His eyes stayed fixed on mine. “You laughing with him every morning looks a lot like you’re fucking him now.”

Anger flared hot and instant through my chest. “You do not get to stand here acting jealous.”

“Didn’t say I was jealous.”

“Oh, bullshit.” The words cracked sharply between us. “You don’t get to fuck another woman while I’m sleeping in your bed and then suddenly decide you care who buys me coffee.”

Riot flinched. It was the first real crack I’d seen in him since all of this started.

“That is none of your fucking business,” I continued furiously. “I told you to stay away from me.”

Pain flashed across his face instantly.

Good. For weeks I had watched him hover outside the clinic, acting wounded while I was the one trying to hold myself together afterward. I was tired of protecting him from the consequences of what he’d done.

“You do not get to act betrayed now,” I said. “You don’t get to look at me like that because another man remembered my favorite cheesecake when you couldn’t even stay faithful long enough to figure out I was in love with you.”

Riot went completely still. The words hit him hard enough that I watched the damage happen in real time.

Was. Past tense.

His throat moved once before he finally spoke. “I stopped.”

I frowned slightly. “What?”

“I stopped sleeping with them.” The words came out rough. “I haven’t touched anybody since you left.”

Anger crashed straight over the softness trying to surface. “That’s supposed to impress me?” I asked bitterly. “Congratulations on reaching the bare minimum.”

Riot looked like I had hit him, and satisfaction rushed through me. I wanted to hurt him, because I still remembered walking into that room and feeling my entire chest cave in around me. I still remembered him smelling like another woman while standing in our bathroom, asking me to stay.

“You don’t get to suddenly become a good man because you realized you’ve lost me,” I said quietly.

Riot stared at me like he wanted to say something else. Like there were words trapped somewhere inside him clawing to get out, but whatever lived inside Riot always seemed to dissipate before it reached his mouth. So, he just stood there in silence while freezing wind moved between us.

My chest still hurt, my nose burned, and tears blurred my vision. I tightened my grip around the coffee cup before stepping backwards toward the clinic parking lot. “You need to leave me alone, Riot. There was nothing between us anyway, right? Just casual? So, go home or go fuck one of your other girls and leave me the fuck alone.”

His expression dropped slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening with something dangerously close to hurt. Still, he nodded once, sliding his sunglasses back into place.

I turned away before I could weaken and walked toward my car without looking back so he wouldn’t see the tears streaming down my face. When I got close to his bike, I threw the coffee cup at it, watching the lid come off, the dark brown liquid run from the seat down, coating it all in sticky fluid. Even that wasn’t enough to stop the anger coursing through me. I placed both of my hands on the seat and pushed. When it wouldn’t budge, I held the handlebars, raised the kickstand and pushed it away from me. The crashing sound tore through the quiet morning. I didn’t look to see if anyone had seen me or wait to see if Riot did anything. I just hurried to my car and jumped inside.

A week after the bakery incident and I had almost convinced myself I was getting better, not even close to healed, but functional at least.

I’d stopped waking up in the middle of the night reaching across the bed for him before remembering he wasn’t there anymore. Most shifts I could even get through several hours without thinking about him constantly.

Which was exactly why seeing Brandi’s name on the clinic chart felt like somebody had punched straight through my ribs. I froze halfway through reviewing medication orders, my eyes locking onto the screen while my stomach twisted sharply.

Patient: Brandi Collins. Sexual health screening.

For one horrible second, all I could see was that back room at the clubhouse. Brandi in Riot’s lap, his hands gripping her hips possessively while his mouth moved against her skin and the rough sound of his voice filled the room saying things he used to murmur against my throat late at night.

My eyes pricked and my nose burned. My chest felt like someone had reached inside and was seeing how hard they could squeeze until I burst.

“Maria?” Jenna’s voice snapped through the fog in my head.