Page 126 of Blood & Throttle
Then another knock, louder. This time, more urgent.
I jolt, breath still uneven, skin flushed, and thighs slick. My pulse hasn’t evened out yet, and already the world’s clawing its way back in.
I twist, reaching over the edge of the bed for my leggings, crumpled and forgotten where Riot tossed them. I pull them on fast, legs still trembling, hands fumbling at the waistband as I glance over my shoulder.
Riot curses low behind me and sits up, the strain in his body obvious as his stitches pull, but he doesn’t hesitate. He moves like he always does, like pain is a background hum, not a reason to stop.
His chest is bare, wiped clean from earlier, skin still damp where I ran the cloth over him. But his pants are ruined—black streaked with dried blood and dirt, the fabric wrinkled from how he gripped me through them. And his cock is still hard,thick and outlined clearly behind the zipper, the imprint unmistakable even in the dim lighting.
He doesn’t care.
He stalks to the door, jaw tight, hair a mess, sweat at his temples, and throws it open like he’s daring whoever’s on the other side to fucking matter.
Ghost stands there. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say a word for a beat too long.
That’s what does it.
The silence.
Riot’s jaw tenses. “This better be good.”
Ghost’s voice is quiet.
“It’s Doc.”
The world sharpens instantly.
Riot goes still.
Not cold. Not angry. Just… blank.
Ghost doesn’t wait for permission. He steps into the room, letting the door shut quietly behind him. His eyes flick to me then lock on Riot, who’s standing right in front of him.
Riot doesn’t move.
Ghost doesn’t dance around it.
“She’s gone.”
The air leaves the room.
Riot doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But I see the way his back tenses, like his spine is bracing for something heavier than impact.
Ghost exhales. “Her blood pressure spiked about thirty minutes ago. They tried everything. Cooling pads, compression, meds. But they couldn’t stop it. She crashed and didn’t come back.”
He reaches into the inside of his jacket and pulls out hermed band. The screen flickers weakly, the name barely legible through the dried blood and cracked glass.
He doesn’t try to hand it over. He just holds it. Like it’s a piece of her none of us are ready to let go of.
“She fought hard,” Ghost adds, voice tight. “But her body was already shutting down. They just couldn’t hold it together.”
Riot still doesn’t move.
He stares past Ghost, jaw tight, mouth set in that way that means the next person who tries to touch him might lose their teeth.
I can feel it from here. He’s not going to break. He’s going to bury it. Like he always does. Like he’s done before.
Ghost hesitates, then shifts his weight back toward the door.
