Page 25 of Riot’s Revenge

The argument would’ve been easier to win if he wasn’t right. Between patients, paperwork, and revision, food had become an afterthought. There had been coffee, a granola bar, and half a biscuit someone had abandoned in the staff room. Looking back, that probably explained why I felt like I could fall asleep standing up.

Riot seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. “You eat anything besides caffeine today?”

I winced as his expression darkened immediately.

“Maria.”

“It was a busy shift.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

With an exaggerated sigh, I gave up. “Fine. Maybe not.”

“Maybe?”

“You’re being remarkably judgmental for somebody who regularly settles disagreements with his fists.”

“And you’re changing the subject.”

Unfortunately, he was becoming annoyingly good at spotting when I did that. Without another word, he held out a helmet. I stared at it for a moment before looking back up at him.

“Does this count as a date?”

Riot considered the question. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“You getting on the bike.”

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting outside a small diner that looked as though it hadn’t been updated since sometime in the eighties. The sign buzzed intermittently overhead, several of the letters flickering every few seconds, while the booths inside appeared to be held together by stubbornness and grease. The coffee tasted burnt, but the burgers were surprisingly good. Then again, I was hungry enough that cardboard probably would’ve tasted impressive.

The city moved around us while we ate. Headlights reflected off rain-darkened pavement, music drifted from a nearby bar before disappearing beneath the steady hum of evening traffic, and people hurried past carrying bags and shopping as the sky deepened into shades of blue and gold.

Riot sat beside me on the low brick wall with his long legs stretched out in front of him, one arm resting casually across his knee. He looked more relaxed than I was used to seeing him, though I wasn’t entirely convinced he knew how to relax completely. There was still a constant awareness about him, a watchfulness that never seemed to switch off no matter how casual the situation appeared. His eyes tracked movement automatically. Not obviously enough for most people to notice, but I noticed. He registered who entered the diner, who left, who lingered too long, and who paid attention to us.

When he was watching a group of loud youths, I stole a chip from his wrapper.

His eyes immediately dropped to my hand. “You’ve got your own.”

“Yours taste better.”

“They came from the same fryer.”

“Still better.”

He shook his head but didn’t stop me from taking another one. His phone buzzed against his thigh. He pulled it out, read it, and the shift in his expression was almost imperceptible, but I caught it immediately. Over the past weeks, I’d started noticing things about Riot that most people probably missed. The slight tightening of his jaw when he was worried. The way his shoulders loosened when something genuinely amused him. The tiny changes in his eyes whenever he was trying—and failing—to hide what he was feeling. It wasn’t irritation, or at least it wasn’t only irritation.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Reaper.”

I smiled immediately. “What has he done now?”

Riot rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Stopped taking the painkillers.”

I stared at him. “Already?”

“He says he doesn’t need them.”