Page 119 of Blood & Throttle
And seeing her like this—bloodied, dominant, completely in control—makes my cock hard.
Even bleeding out, I’d drop to my knees for her.
Her lip’s bleeding again, blood dripping from her chin onto his face as she drives another punch into his cheek. He groans, barely conscious, but she’s not done.
Her hand goes to her thigh holster. She draws her pistol and shoves it in his mouth.
The pit goes silent.
Drones zoom in, mechanical wings buzzing.
The crowd loses its goddamn mind—cheers, whistles, fists pounding metal rails in every viewing bay from Sector Dusk to the Neon Strip.
But then everything changes.
A new sound cuts through the noise.
Click.
Cold steel presses to Sin’s temple.
My breath catches and my body snaps forward.
A Syndicate enforcer—masked, armored, and faceless has a gun to her head.
I lunge, blood roaring in my ears and get slammed back by two handlers. Their grips are iron. One hand hits the fresh wound. I snarl.
“LET HER GO.”
Bishop’s shoved next to me. Ghost too. Luca’s pinned with a drone-mounted baton to his chest. Taz is snarling, circling like she’s seconds from ripping out someone’s throat.
“Riot!” Sin’s voice is still calm, but I can hear the shift. The tension. She doesn’t move, but her trigger finger is tight.
Then Voss steps through the smoke.
Sharp suit. Clean gloves. That ever-neutral, polished mask of a man who’s always watching from the shadows. But he’s not alone.
Next to him walks someone new. Taller, broader. An olderman in a slate-colored suit with razor-pressed cuffs and blood-red cufflinks. His hair’s silver, slicked back. A jagged scar runs from his right eye to his throat—like someone tried to silence him and failed.
The air changes around him.
This man walks like war.
Voss doesn’t even look at Jace.
He looks at Sin. “Sienna,” he says smoothly. “Step off him.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Instead, she runs her tongue slowly across her teeth—slick with blood from the fight—smirking like she’s tasting it, like she’s deciding if she wants more. She looks feral. Bloodthirsty. And absolutely fucking pissed they’re stopping her.
Voss’s voice tightens. “Now.”
Crowd murmurs ripple behind the pit walls. They’re not cheering anymore. They’re whispering.
Because the Syndicate never intervenes. Not in the pit. Not during kills.
The drones are still filming, circling low, beams locked on Sin’s face and Jace’s broken body. Every second is being streamed, raw and uncut, across every district. No delay. No filters. Just blood, dominance, and the moment she decides who lives and who doesn’t.
She stares him down. The gun doesn’t tremble. Her hand doesn’t shake.
