Page 49 of Blood & Throttle
"Persistent little shit," Riot mutters, barely audible over the roar of the engines.
I bite back a curse. He’s right. Jace should be a smear on the asphalt by now but the bastard just won’t stay down.
And then, the finish line.
We tear across it first, tires screaming, and heat coiling through my veins. But behind us? Jace isn’t far.
I twist in my seat, pulse hammering as his battered bikecrosses the line just seconds after us. His body is hunched forward, arms shaking, but he’s still fucking upright.
Still breathing.
Riot growls low, barely audible beneath the chaos. The crowd is losing their minds. The pit bosses are already making their calls. The odds just shifted again.
We survived. But so did he.
And that?
That means next time, he’ll come even harder.
The second we stop, I shove my helmet off, heart slamming against my ribs. The crowd is losing its mind, chanting, screaming, and howling for blood.
For us.
I’m gasping, lungs burning, and hands trembling from the sheer rush of it all.
Riot is calm and steady. He peels his helmet off, shaking out his dark hair, exhaling like he didn’t just cheat death a dozen times.
His eyes find mine.
And for a second, neither of us move.
Then he smirks. "Told you we’d make it."
I scoff, shoving him. "Next time, I’m driving."
He laughs, low and dark, full of that fucking cocky arrogance.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers.
“And that’s the end of Round One—The Bone Yard. If you’re still breathing, congratulations. You’ve earned yourself a spot in Round Two. One week from tonight, The Gauntlet continues. The Concrete Graveyard awaits.”
A brief pause. Then, in a tone dripping with amusement:
“Remember to collect your bounties, settle your debts,and place your bets, folks. The next race is always closer than you think.”
The speakers cut out and the crowd surges, a mix of drunken celebration, frustration, and cold, hard business.
The Bone Yard is done.
And we’re still here.
I suck in a breath, chest still rising and falling too fast, the aftermath of the race still thrumming through me. My hands are shaking, but not from fear. The adrenaline is still high, the rush still thick in my veins.
And I fucking liked it.
Riot’s body is solid beneath my hands, my grip still tight around his waist. I should let go, should shove him away, should put distance between us before he starts thinking I need him.
But I don’t.
