Page 137 of Blood & Throttle
“I warned you,” I snarl, voice like cut wire. “Don’t even fucking look at her.”
“What’s the matter, Carter? Scared someone’s gonna break her in right? I bet she’s all bite ‘til you pin her down. Pretty little thing like that? Bet she tastes better when she cries.”
I step into him again, close enough that my breath hits his face. My voice drops dead calm, and full of the kind of promise that makes grown men piss themselves.
“No one touches what’s mine and walks away breathing.”
He laughs but it’s not as smug this time. There’s hesitation behind it, a flicker of something real. Fear, maybe. Or maybe just the realization that I’m not bluffing.
“Seems to me like her sweet ass may be more than just your prize, there, Carter,” he mutters, lip bleeding. “Maybe even your weakness.”
I lean in, low and lethal. “She’s my fucking warpath.” Then I grin, and it’s not fucking friendly. “She’s the last thing your eyes will see before I carve them out.”
I swing again, my fist connecting with his jaw. Hard enough to stagger him back into the pit post, hard enough to split his lip deeper. He grunts, but I don’t stop. I get in close, voice low and lethal.
The handler steps between us. “Enough,” he barks, but I don’t flinch.
“I don’t give a fuck who you’re taking orders from,” I snarl, eyes still on Jace. “You think I won’t snap his spine just because you’re standing there? Try me.”
Jace’s smirk is cracked and bloody now. He spits again, but this time there’s no cocky comeback, just that flicker of realization. I’m not fucking bluffing, and he knows it.
“You hear that?” I say louder, for the whole pit to catch. “Whatever deal you made to stay breathing, enjoy it. Becausethe second that leash slips—” I drag a thumb across my throat. “You’re done.”
No rules and no fucking mercy. Not a single Syndicate shield will matter when the lights go out.
Because this time?
I’m not just racing to win. I’m racing to fucking endhim.
Twenty-Five
Sienna
Gasoline - Halsey
Guess we tradedblood and bone for glowsticks and god complexes.
The air in Halcyon Verge tastes like static and neon rot. The kind of place where broken dreams go to glitch themselves to death. I grip the wrench tighter, hands raw from hours of work under cracked lights and low murmurings. Everything here fucking flickers. The strip. The signs. The people. Even my fucking soul.
And after what I just watched—Riot with Jace, the handler stepping in, that gun cocked like we’re not already dancing on a landmine—it’s clear now more than ever: something’s off. This isn’t just about winning anymore. I mean, I guess it never was. Not for them at least. Not for Kane.
Jace isn’t protected because he’s dangerous. He’s protected because someone gave him permission to be. Riot was ready to put him in the ground. I could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way he stepped in like he was goingto shatter the air between them with one fucking punch. And when he did? The handler was there in seconds. No hesitation or warning. Just the kind of silence that says orders were already given.
The pit saw it too. The shift. The pit went ballistic. Racers shouting, handlers scrambling to pretend they had control of the room. And me? I just stood there, watching it all unravel like the world’s bloodiest soap opera.
The Gauntlet was never supposed to have rules. That’s the whole damn point. No mercy. No favorites. No protection. Just survive or don’t.
But the second Jace got Syndicate protection—when they stepped in, not to keep the race fair, but to keep him breathing—it changed everything. They weren’t protecting anyone else. Not me. Not Riot. Not the dozens of other racers who’ve eaten bullets and blades for the camera.
Just Jace.
Because when the right bastard signs the check, suddenly the game isn’t a game anymore. It’s theater. Rigged. Dirty. And deadly in all the wrong ways.
Riot didn’t need to say it. I felt it in the way he stared Jace down like he’d already written his epitaph. And the others? They said plenty. They shouted. Called bullshit. Because if Jace gets a leash and the rest of us are still expected to die for crowd ratings, then the Syndicate’s not just playing god.
They’re rigging the end of the world.
Jace isn’t one of us anymore. He’s a Syndicate mouthpiece wrapped in smug leather and a target on his back he’ll never see coming.
