Page 175 of Blood & Throttle
Chest plate tight. Gloves locked. Mag checked. Knife in her boot. The smooth, brutal precision of her routine and itkills me.
Because she looks like a soldier.
Like an executioner. An angel carved from fucking vengeance and set loose with a death wish, and I can’t shake the feeling I’m watching her walk into a fucking grave.
Mine or hers, I don’t know anymore.
“East ramps are rigged with spikes,” she mutters, sliding her blade home. “Guess we’re taking the scenic route.”
I grunt. “Long way’s better than dead.”
She doesn’t argue but she doesn’t agree either. That fire in her eyes flicks toward the pit across from us. Watching the other racers prepare. Watching Jace’s empty bike idle without its snake.
No Jace.
Not good.
My hands twitch on the handlebars. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my fucking bones, and then she curses under her breath.
“My keychain,” she says. “I left it in the room.”
“You don’t need a fucking trinket to win.”
“Maybe not, but I want it with me when we cross that finish line,” she snaps, already turning. “I’m not going without it.”
“Sin.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Two minutes,” she calls over her shoulder.
“You’ve got one,” I growl, stepping into her space, low and lethal. “And after we win this bullshit, I’m fucking you right thereon the pavement, in the blood of the bastards who didn’t make it. With the OmniCast live, so every goddamn district sees who you belong to. Maybe then, maybethen, I’ll finally fuck the last of that defiance out of you.” She flips me off without turning around.
Fucking brat.
But she’s mine.
The second she disappears around the corner of the arena warehouse, something ugly digs its claws into my gut. This doesn’t feel right. Not just nerves. Not just the pre-race itch under my skin. This is something different. It’s the kind of dread that screams like a warning shot under your ribs.
The bike growls under me like it fucking knows. That stupid little demon decal Sin slapped on the tank stares up at me, all horns and attitude, like even it can feel the shift in the air, like it’s mocking me for not moving yet.
I swing off the bike, boots hitting pavement hard. My hands won’t stop twitching. Jaw locked. Heart pounding like a fucking war drum. I start pacing, trying to shake the feeling crawling up my spine. Like something’s off. Like something’swrong.
I dig into my pocket, yank out a smoke with shaking fingers, and light it with a sharp drag—burning my lungs, and trying to calm the storm. It doesn’t help.
Fifteen fucking minutes.
I clock the time and feel my jaw tighten. She’s been gone too long. It doesn’t take fifteen goddamn minutes to grab a keychain. Not unless something’s wrong. Not unless someone made sure she didn’t come back.
My gut’s screaming. My fists itch. And every second that ticks by feels like another fucking nail in someone’s coffin.
Then I see him—Ghost—rushing over, pale as death, tabletclutched tight in his hands like he’s carrying a live grenade. He’s shaking.
“I got it,” Ghost pants, breath ragged like he ran through hell to get to me.
“Got what?” I snap, already halfway to combusting.
“The hard drive,” he gasps. “I cracked it. There’s feeds, hidden shit. District-level. Unlisted.”
