Page 100 of Blood & Throttle
We get dressed without saying much else. Not cold, just… focused. Like we both know the next storm’s already building.
We hit the pit level, but it’s different now. The air's changed—heavier, meaner.
This part of Wraithmoor’s built like a machine that forgot what it was meant to do—concrete ribs overhead, exposed pipes dripping black sludge, lights flickering with no rhythm. Smoke curls in sheets through busted vents, mixed with the reek of oil, blood, ozone, and something burnt.
Everything smells like the end of something.
Voices hush the second we step into view.
Boots echo against metal flooring. Chain link fences separate crew areas, shadows shifting behind them. Racers lean against cracked walls, cigarettes glowing like embers in their fingers. Some stare. Some look away fast.
I can feel it when we walk in. The shift. The eyes. The weight.
I’m sure Jace ran his mouth already. Spun whatever bullshit story makes him look like the victim. Yeah, we killed his crew. Cut them down like the trash they were. And?
This is The Gauntlet.
There’s no penalty for murder here.
On or off camera, blood’s just part of the entertainment.
Let them watch.
Let them whisper.
I don’t give a single fuck who knows what we did.
They had it coming.
And anyone else who thinks they can fuck with me or with the people I care about?
They’ll end up the same.
Dead.
Or begging to be.
Taz walks between us like a damn soldier, ears high, body alert, every muscle wound tight. She catches the tension before we do.
We don’t even make it halfway through the pit before the voice hits from behind.
“Well, well,” Jace calls, louder than necessary. “The Syndicate’s favorite golden boy and the girl who keeps him warm.”
We stop.
Sin turns first and I follow.
Jace is strutting toward us with his new crew trailing behind him like hired muscle. All swagger, and no soul. He’s got that same cocky grin twisted across his face like he didn’t run last night with his dick in his hands and blood on his boots.
“Too bad I wasn’t there,” he says, flashing teeth. “Could’ve stopped you from butchering my guys.”
Sin tilts her head slowly, amused.
“Do you know what they call guys like you where I’m from?” she asks, voice light and mocking. “Guys who leave their men to die while they crawl into the dark like little bitches?”
His smirk twitches.
“They call them cowards. No-balls, limp-dick, mouthy little shits who talk tough and hide behind bodies they didn’t earn.”
