Page 129 of Blood & Throttle
So we wait.
Riot keeps going until the grave is full. Until every inch of white cloth is hidden beneath a layer of earth. His side is bleeding steadily now, soaking the front of his shirt and mixing with the dirt along his ribs. The gauze is useless. He has to feel it, has to know, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t even glance down.
Finally, he stands.
He doesn’t look at any of us. His face is unreadable and smeared with dirt. Blood crusts along his hairline, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. He turns silently.
We fall in behind him without a word. Even Taz trails after him, her tail low, ears pinned flat, like she knows something sacred just happened and she’s not allowed to break it.
Inside the warehouse, the air shifts. It’s heavier now. Not suffocating but thick. Still. Even the walls seem quieter, like they know something important is missing.
No one says anything.
They just go back to work. Bishop pulls his blades off the rack and starts sharpening them again. Ghost takes apart a mod panel and starts rewiring it, even though it was already working fine. Luca drags a half-busted coil across the pit and tears it open like it’s the only thing he can fix right now. None of us speak. The handlers stay out of our way. No one dares come close.
We move, because that’s what we know how to do. Because we’re still alive. Because Doc would’ve expected us to keep fighting.
But me?
I follow Riot.
He doesn’t stop walking until he’s back inside our quarters. He peels off his blood soaked shirt and drops it on the floor.Then he sits on the edge of the bed, hunched forward like his body’s finally registering the weight of all of it—her death, the blood loss, the guilt. All of it pressing down on him all at once.
He doesn’t look at me. Just sits there, shoulders hunched, jaw locked, both fists braced against his thighs like if he lets go of tension for one second, he’ll fall apart.
I shut the door behind us and turn the lock. Let the rest of the world keep spinning without us.
His breathing is shallow. Controlled. But I can see the stiffness in it. Every inhale pulls at his ribs. His side is still bleeding through the gauze again. Still. But he doesn’t mention it, just stares at the floor like it’s the only thing left that doesn’t need fixing.
I walk over slowly. No smirk. No sass. Just quiet. Just presence. I drop to my knees in front of him, placing my hands on his legs.
Then slowly he lifts his eyes to mine, and I see it. Not numbness. Not even emptiness. Something worse.
Raw grief. Guilt tangled into every tendon. Rage coiled behind his ribs like a fuse waiting to snap. He doesn’t need comfort. He doesn’t want absolution. He just wants silence he can survive inside.
His jaw tightens but he gives a short nod. His throat works like he wants to respond, but the words get stuck. He blinks a few times, slow and heavy but still doesn’t say anything.
Eventually, he leans back. Slowly. Like gravity’s heavier now. He lowers himself onto the mattress, one arm flung over his face, the other resting over the fresh blood seeping down his ribs. He doesn’t care that it’s still open, still raw. He just lays there.
I crawl in beside him and press in close, letting my body shape itself to his. I pull his head down onto my chest. Hedoesn’t resist. One arm slides around my waist, not tight, or desperate, justthere. Like he needed something to anchor to.
Taz hops up a second later and curls at his boots, ears twitching every time the hallway creaks. She settles in like she’s not moving for anyone. Same as me.
I run my fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic. Just enough to remind him he’s still here and that no matter what, he’s not alone.
“It’s not fair,” he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.
“No,” I whisper back. “It’s not.”
“She was family.”
“She still is.”
His hand tightens against my hip. Not to claim or control. But to feel something that won’t slip through his fingers.
“I should’ve fucking protected her.”
“You did,” I say, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “You always do.”
