Page 128 of Blood & Throttle
We fall into the same rhythm. Prep. Patch. Repeat because The Gauntlet doesn’t wait. Because Doc wouldn’t want us standing still.
So we don’t.
We keep moving. Keep pretending and pressing forward like we’re not cracked open at the center.
The pit is where the Syndicate dumps the dead. Concrete. Burn piles. Mass graves. Forgotten.
That was never going to be good enough. Not for Doc. Not for any of us. And definitely not for Riot.
When he tells us he’s taking her out—alone—no one argues. There’s no pushback, no defiance, no sharp words flung across the room. We all want to go. Every single one of us wants to stand by him and carry her weight together. But the moment Riot says, “I need to do this” we know what he means. We know why.
It isn’t about tradition, or some quiet, unspoken rule. It’s about guilt. About love that got twisted into something heavier than anyone should have to hold. We’re all hurting. We all lost her. But Riot’s the only one who isn’t blaming Jace. He blames himself. The one who always swore he’d protect us all. And now he’s bleeding—physically, emotionally—because in his mind, he failed.
So we nod. Quiet. Respectful. We don’t follow, and we don’t offer to help. We just watch him, silent and still, and we let him go. Because even if we don’t like it, even if it splitssomething open inside us, we understand. This isn’t about us. This is for her. This is for him.
Riot walks into the infirmary without a word.
She’s already wrapped in the white sheet Ghost gave them—clean, tucked, sealed like they were trying to protect what was left. No one moves. No one dares to.
He steps up beside her and leans down, arms sliding beneath her with that same steady control he uses when handling a weapon. One under her knees, one cradling her back, he lifts her.
Wrapped like that, she looks too small. Too light. Like she’s just sleeping, like if he held her close enough, she might wake up.
But she doesn’t.
His movements are careful. Slow. Gentle in a way that guts me.
He cradles her like she’s still breathing. He pauses for a second and presses his forehead to hers. No words. Just a moment. A goodbye.
Then he turns and walks out. Past the gates, beyond the pit, and through the kill zone.
Alone.
He digs like pain isn’t something he registers anymore. Every shove of the shovel is harsh, methodical. Like each strike into the dirt is a punishment, or maybe a penance. His jaw stays locked, shoulders rigid. I can see the muscles in his back tensing under his shirt, the fabric stretched tight, soaked through with sweat and dust. Blood stains the gauze at his ribs, and fresh red has started to leak down his side again, seeping into the waistband of his pants. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even seem to notice.
When the grave is deep enough, he plants the shovel into the ground and drops to his knees beside her.
Riot reaches out, hands trembling as he slips one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. He lifts her with a kind of reverence that makes my throat close. He adjusts the sheet again, tucks it tighter, like she might wake up cold. Like this matters.
And then he lowers her.
Slow. Careful. Like she could still break.
He places her into the grave like she’s still breathing, and then, without a word, he starts covering her.
No shovel now. Just his hands. One scoop of dirt at a time, fingers sinking into the soil. It clings to his skin, coats his knuckles, gets under his nails. The wind howls through the weeds at the edge of the field, but that’s the only sound besides the dirt falling over her.
Behind me, the rest of the crew stays back. We’re close, but not too close. This is his moment. His grief. His guilt. And we give it to him.
Luca stands with his arms crossed, his hoodie sleeve damp where he’s wiped at his eyes too many times. Bishop stares at the grave, unmoving, like he can will her back into existence through sheer force of will. Ghost stands a few feet behind them, arms folded tight across his chest, head slightly bowed, like even he doesn’t know how to carry this kind of silence.
No one speaks. Not because we’re quiet by nature but because nothing we say will change anything. The weight of it doesn’t need words. It just is.
“Should we go down there?” Luca asks, his voice barely more than a rasp.
I shake my head. “He said alone.”
And we all know he meant it.
