Page 145 of Blood & Throttle
“Oh, I knew exactly what I was signing up for the second I bet on you,” I mutter, grabbing our helmets. “Mouthy. Stubborn. Pain in the fucking ass. But mine.”
She smirks, lips still cracked and raw. “Damn right.”
I help her pull her jacket on, keeping one hand on her back. She leans into it without protest.
The warehouse is already settling down behind us. Pit rats clearing wreckage. Drones rebooting. The buzz of static still hanging in the air.
I slip her onto the bike behind me. Her arms wrap weakly around my waist. And just before I hit the throttle, I glance toward the pit. They didn’t see what I did out there but they know. They know exactly how far I’ll go for her.
And I haven’t even started.
Twenty-Eight
Riot
Problem - Natalia Kills
I knewshe’d be a fucking problem.
The second I bet on her, I saw it coming—mouthy, reckless, impossible to ignore. The kind of girl who makes chaos look good and doesn’t know how to stay in her damn lane.
What I didn’t expect?
Was how much I’d start liking the fucking problem.
Didn’t expect her voice to stick in my head like a loaded trigger. Didn’t expect my cock to twitch every time she rolled her eyes at me, or my chest to twist every time someone so much as looked at her wrong. Didn’t expect her to crawl under my skin and stay there.
But here she is.
Riding behind me through the afterglow of Verge, arms tight around my waist, body warm against my back, alive. Awake. Still a pain in my ass, and still mine.
The district’s still burning in color—neon signs glitching like heart monitors on the edge, strip lights flickering overbloodstains that haven’t dried yet. Drones buzz above like vultures wired for profit, broadcasting every flicker of movement to the highest bidder. The crowd behind us? Still screaming, still betting, still addicted to the spectacle.
We survived.
Again.
But this isn’t survival. Not really.
This is war, and at this point, she’s the only fucking reason I’m still in it.
The farther we ride, the more she presses into me. I feel her muscles tight against my back, feel her chest rise and fall in rhythm with mine. She’s calming. But I know her well enough now to know she’s thinking too. Watching and waiting.
I cut left off the main grid. Down a forgotten road where the lights dim and the Syndicate’s eyes don’t reach. Past what used to be theaters, hardware stores, and seedy cafes with menus that read like sin and tasted like regret. We ride until the streets are empty, the sounds are dulled, and the Verge pulses behind us like a bad dream trying to follow.
Then I stop.
Sin doesn’t ask why, she just climbs off, stretches her legs, and looks up at the place I’ve brought her to.
Neon pink lights bleed down the alley, casting everything in a candy-coated glow that can’t hide the rot. The building ahead is crumbling brick and shadow, its rusted-out sign barely hanging on. Only a few letters still flicker with power, just enough to spell one word in pulsing light:FLESH.
Her lips part. “Subtle.”
I smirk. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
I swing off the bike, boots crunching glass as I pull my helmet off and toss it onto the seat. Reaching back, I take herstoo, setting it beside mine like it belongs there. Likeshebelongs there.
Then I fish out a cigarette, bite the filter, and flick my lighter to life with a sharp snap. The flame glows for half a second in the neon haze before the first drag scorches down my throat. Smoke curls up into the Verge’s electric night—sharp, bitter, grounding.
