Page 127 of Blood & Throttle
“I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. I’ll tell the others.” He leaves the med band on the nearby table. Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. But it may as well slam.
Riot just stands there, staring at the wall like he’s trying to make it explode by force of will.
I move toward him, slow. Every step feels heavier than the last.
He turns on his own. Sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head low. Not bowed. Not broken. Just… burning.
I drop to my knees in front of him. My hands find his thighs. My fingers grip harder than I mean them to. He’s not bleeding anymore. Not on the outside. But I can see it.
The damage is fresh. Deep. Quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Still nothing.
His chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. Too even.Too controlled. I know this version of Riot. And I know what comes next. The grief doesn’t come out in tears or screams. It coils behind his ribs like a weapon waiting for a target.
I move closer, pressing my forehead to his. His hand comes up finally, trailing down my spine, warm and steady. His palm curls against my waist like I’m the only thing keeping him from slipping under.
“I just closed you up,” I whisper, voice catching. “And now you’re gonna fall apart all over again.”
Riot exhales slow, like the words scraped something loose inside him.
“We all are, Little Stray,” he mutters, jaw tight. “Some shit you can’t sew shut.”
He’s not wrong and my chest aches.
I lean in and kiss him softly, lingering. Not to fix anything, but just to stay connected. To remind him I’m still here.
When I pull back, he’s still gripping my waist. Not tight or rough. Just… anchored. Like letting go might be the thing that finally breaks him. And I know he’s not ready.
Not yet.
Twenty-Three
Sienna
Stray - jxdn
The last fewdays are a blur.
The warehouse feels colder now. Not physically, just in the way grief hangs in the rafters like smoke—thick, lingering and refusing to clear.
No one’s loud. No one’s laughing. The crew moves like shadows. No music. No tools clanking. Just the distant hum of engines being tuned, and the low mechanical throb of The Gauntlet still moving. Because it doesn’t stop.
Not even for Doc.
The way she went, Maggie said it was quiet. Peaceful.
But there’s nothing peaceful about the silence that follows. There’s no roadmap for this kind of grief. No messy breakdowns. No dramatic wailing in the corners. Just silence where noise used to live.
We all keep moving, but it’s not real. It’s just mechanical. Bishop welds like he’s trying to burn it out of his bones, his visor down and sparks flying. Luca hasn’t said a single thingthat could be mistaken for a joke. And Ghost? He doesn’t look at anyone. Just works. Sharp. Distant.
No one says much.
But it’s not avoidance.
It’s survival.
