Page 10 of Blood & Throttle
And then, there’s the scent.
Not perfume. Not anything artificial. Just leather, oil, sweat, and something darker—like smoke lingering in the air after a fire.
She smells like survival.
Like a girl who should be dead but isn’t.
I press the blade just a little harder, searching for the crack. The flinch. The hesitation.
It never fucking comes.
I should end this now. Cut her throat, toss her body into the pit, and let them find some other poor bastard to entertain the crowd and the racers tonight.
Instead, I lean in, my voice dropping to something low and lethal. “I said, get on the fucking bike.” It’s not a request or a suggestion. It’s a fucking order. I tilt my head, eyes locked on hers, daring her to defy me. “Or are you scared? Scared you’ll fucking die?” I smirk, letting the weight of my words sink in. “Go ahead. Prove me right.”
Her dark eyes flash as she tilts her chin, pressing into the blade instead of away from it, a slow, deliberate challenge. A thin bead of blood wells up, sliding down the curve of her throat, but she still doesn’t flinch.
She fucking smiles. Like this is a game. Like she’s not standing in the middle of a goddamn death sentence.
"You always this much of an asshole," she drawls, voicedripping with mock innocence. "Or is this just your way of flirting?"
She’s testing me. Poking at the beast just to see if it bites.
Fucking hell.
This bitch is going to be fucking problem.
I chuckle, slow and dark, then drag the blade flatly across my tongue, tasting the sharp tang of her blood—copper and defiance.
Flicking the knife closed, I smirk, slow and sharp. "Just for you, Little Stray. Try not to fall in love."
Then I step back and watch.
She doesn’t hesitate as she swings a leg over the bike like she belongs on it, like the whole track isn’t already sharpening its teeth for her.
She grips the throttle, straightens her back, before pulling the helmet over her head and staring down the starting line.
She thinks she’s got a shot.
She doesn’t.
Because this isn’t a race. It’s a fucking execution.
I’ve been riding in The Gauntlet long enough to know how this ends.
The crowd is hungry, the track is wired for carnage, and the Syndicate has millions riding on her death.
And The Gauntlet?
It doesn’t do second chances.
Some people think this is just a high-stakes street race. Some think it’s about crossing the finish line first, about sponsors and bets and a whole lot of fast, reckless adrenaline junkies trying to make a name for themselves.
Those people die before the first turn.
There are no rules. No brakes and no fuckingmercy.
Weapons are fair game. Sabotage isn’t cheating. The pit crews rig engines to fail mid-race, booby-trap tires with slow leaks, install fuel tanks that are one stray bullet away from turning into a funeral pyre. If you crash, you don’t get back up. No medical teams. No rescue crews. If you fall, the only thing hitting the brakes is the concrete waiting to split your skull.
