Page 123 of Blood & Throttle
“I’m mad you have a fucking death wish.”
And I am.
But underneath the anger is something else, something sharp and shaking. Because the image of that moment is stuck behind my eyes. Him twisting the bike. Shielding me. Taking the hit. The way his body jerked when it hit, the sound he made. I didn’t know if he was gonna stay upright.
He saved me. Again.
And it fucking terrifies me how easy he made that decision.
Helies down anyway, arms spread, head tipped to the side and his breath shallow. I straddle his hips carefully, weight balanced off his wound.
He watches me thread the needle and watches me sterilize the wound. His eyes don’t leave my face, even when I press the first stitch through skin.
He flinches and sucks in air.
I pause.
“You good?”
His jaw flexes. “Keep going.”
So I do.
Slow, precise pulls of the thread through flesh. He doesn’t make a sound after that first breath, just lies there under me like I’m sewing pieces of him back together.
When it’s done, I press the gauze pad over the stitches and tape it down.
He catches my wrist. His grip is light, but unyielding.
“You looked fucking incredible,” he mutters, eyes locked on me. “Back there. In the pit.”
“You’re concussed.”
His hand brushes the inside of my wrist slowly. “You were chaos. Bloody, unhinged, fucking unstoppable. I could’ve watched you beat the shit out of him for hours.”
My hair’s still dripping, skin flushed from the heat of a shower that was way too quick to matter. A towel clings to my damp body, barely covering the bruises and cuts I haven’t had time to think about. Steam still lingers in the air, but it can’t wash off the exhaustion. I’m clean, technically—but under the surface, I’m still vibrating, still wrecked from everything that came before.
Yet still, somehow, I’m burning.
I scoot to the side, shooting him a look. “You’ve got abullet hole in your side, Romeo. Maybe keep it in your pants before your stitches pop and I have to sew you back together again—this time with dental floss.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smirk. Not quite anything soft. He grabs my wrist—firm but not rough and guides my hand down. I barely finish the sentence before his hand catches mine and drags it lower. Beneath the band of his pants. Right to the evidence that he doesn’t give a single shit about timing or stitches.
Hard. Hot. Demanding.
He leans in, breath against my ear, voice dark as sin.
“Too late.”
My heart stutters. My fingers wrap around him automatically, and he groans low and dangerous, like he’s barely holding himself back.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” I mutter, voice raw.
“And you shouldn’t turn me on when I’m bleeding,” he bites back. “Yet here we are.” Then he’s pulling me forward. One hard yank and I’m off balance, landing half on top of him as he shifts onto the bed. My breath catches, but I don’t stop him. The fabric peels off sticky and hot, blood-smeared and ruined, sliding down my thighs, my calves, until they’re tossed somewhere behind us.
“You’ve got two choices,” he says, voice dark, low, feral. “Let me touch you…” His hand curls around my jaw, guiding my face close to his. His nose brushes mine. “…or I pull my fucking stitches open reminding you who you belong to.”
My breath leaves in one sharp exhale because I know he means it. He’ll tear himself apart for this.
