Page 3 of Blood & Throttle
“Well, well, fresh fucking meat, boys!”
“Bet she won’t last five minutes. Wonder if she’ll scream first.”
“Heard she’s got a mouth on her—I could find a better use for it before she dies.”
Laughter ripples through the group. Someone whistles low. I stay silent, watching, waiting to see how she reacts. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even cower. She just stares at them, unreadable, unshaken, like she’s deciding who she’s going to kill first.
Interesting.
Bitch has more balls than half the fuckers in this pit.
I exhale slow, flicking my cigarette to the ground before pushing off my bike.
“Who the fuck is she?”
The conversation dies instantly.
When I speak, people fucking listen.
A guy to my left—Marcus, one of the pit runners, a rat-faced bastard who hears everything before it spreads—clears his throat. “Sienna Vega. Heard she’s a dead girl walkin’,” he says. “Word is Kane’s people had the Syndicate throw her in as punishment for killing his son.”
That tracks. This place takes volunteers, but not many. You can enterThe Gauntletwillingly, if you're desperate enough or just fucking insane. But it’s almost never women who do, because everyone knows it’s a death sentence.
“She do it?” I ask.
Marcus shrugs. “Don’t matter. The bet’s already made. House wants her dead.”
The crowd mutters in agreement, watching me carefully.
They expect me to fall in line.
To treat her like just another body already waiting to be dragged off the track.
But I don’t.
Falling in line? Doing what I’m told? Yeah, that’s never been my fucking style. Not then. Not now.
Instead, I look at her again. Really look.
Bruises lace her ribs, peeking out from the torn neckline of her tank top. Blood smears the corner of her mouth, dried where some bastard tried—and fucking failed—to shut her up.
But her eyes?
Burning.
Sharp.
Refusing to fucking kneel.
A muscle in my jaw twitches and Jace notices. Cocky bastard that he is, he steps forward, smirking, always looking for a fight.
“Pretty lil’ thang ain’t she. No matter, we all know she won’t even make it through the first lap," he drawls. "Might as well put her to good use before her flesh gets ground into the asphalt beneath my wheels." More laughter and a few murmurs of agreement.
My body moves before I even register the decision.
One second, Jace is smirking, the next, my hand is around his throat, slamming him back against the nearest stack of tires. A collective gasp ripples through the pit. Jace chokes, hands flying to his neck as I tighten my grip, cutting off whatever smart-ass response he was about to spit out.
The crowd knows better than to step in.
