Page 189 of Blood & Throttle
Nah. I’m talking about the kind of day where your ribs feel like they went ten rounds with a jackhammer, your knuckles are torn open from fighting your way out of hell, and the bastard who ruined your life is now leaking brain matter across a blood-slick floor.
That kind of day.
I breathe deep. Inhale smoke. Ash. Gasoline. Sweat. Victory.
We made it out.
Barley alive, but alive.
The highway stretching out of Deadmoor is a warpath—fractured asphalt, broken signage, charred husks of what used to be Syndicate drones littering the median. But to me? It’s beautiful. Because it means we’re not in there anymore. We’renot trapped in the Game. We’re no longer pawns in someone else’s bloodsport.
The Syndicate zone is still on fire behind us. OmniCast loops the same footage on every screen across all the districts, Kane’s secrets playing like a death reel, broadcasting across all channels. And now?
Now they can’t shut it off.
The Syndicate’s unraveling more with every replay. Riots exploding across the lower sectors, and every high tower that thought it was safe? Yeah they’re getting a major wakeup call.
Voss went off grid. Probably hiding in some gilded bunker, trying to figure out who to kill to patch the hole we just blew through his empire.
I hope he’s watching. I hope every fucking executive, every silent investor, every handler, lapdog and twisted puppet master is watching. Because we didn’t just survive The Gauntlet.
We set fire to their stage.
We ended their whole fucking show.
Riot hasn’t said much since we bolted from Kane’s compound. But he doesn’t have to. It’s in the way he rides—controlled chaos. One hand on the throttle, the other tight around my thigh, like letting go of me now might break him.
I hold on just as tight. I rest my cheek against Riot’s back, the hum of the bike thrumming through my bones. The wind tears at my hair, blood still crusted in the split on my lip, but all I feel is the heat of him—alive, solid, mine.
His hand hasn’t left my thigh. And my hand? Well, it doesn’t leave his waistband. I let my fingers trail lower, just to see what happens.
“Stray.” His voice is a warning, low and sharp.
I smile against his shoulder. “What? Can’t keep your eyes on the road?”
“I can,” he growls, tightening his grip on the throttle. “No problem.”
“Oh?” I purr, my fingers already curled over the edge of his waistband. “Guess we’ll see.”
He doesn’t answer—so I take that as a yes. I pop the button on his jeans, slow and smooth, just to hear his breath hitch. Then I slide my hand inside, past the heat, past the denim and fabric, until I’m wrapped around him.
Hard. Hot. Mine.
He hisses through his teeth.
“Hmm?” I smirk against his neck, stroking him with a teasing rhythm that’s just shy of cruel. “Did you say something, Reaper?”
“No,” his tone is rough and laced with arousal.
“Oh yeah?” I grip him tighter, drag my palm down with purpose. “Because you’re twitching like a sinner in church.”
He swerves a little.
I laugh. “What was that?”
“Fuck,” he growls, voice tight. “You win.”
I kiss his shoulder, smug. “Of course I do,”
