Page 136 of Blood & Throttle
Bishop steps in first, hands at his sides, visor lifted, knuckles flexing like he’s already picturing how Jace’s jaw breaks on impact. Ghost flanks him, quiet and unreadable, but hiseyes don’t blink. They’re locked on Jace like he’s just a blueprint waiting to be taken apart. And Luca—fuckin’ Luca—cracks his neck like he’s warming up for the kind of fight they don’t televise.
None of them say a word.
They don’t have to.
Because Jace sees it. He seesthem. The way we move without a cue. The way Sin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat, because she knows we’ve already drawn the line.
It won’t be just me.
He’ll have to go through all of us, and judging by the slight shift in his stance, the way his cocky mask falters just enough, even he knows he won’t make it.
Not even fucking close.
From behind me a hand grabs my arm. Hard. Tight enough to make my shoulder twitch.
“Enough,” a flat voice says.
I turn, slowly, and meet the mirrored goggles of a Syndicate handler. Black suit, combat boots, comms piece in his ear. Official. Armed.
And apparently assigned tohim.
“You lay a hand on him again,” the handler says, voice flat and cocky, “and I put you down. Right here. Right now.”
No hesitation. Just the cold weight of a man who thinks his trigger finger makes him god.
I don’t flinch. “Then pull the fucking trigger.”
The handler’s mouth twitches like he’s hoping I give him a reason.
Jace’s laugh slithers out behind him. “Damn, Reaper. Didn’t know you were so emotional.”
I tilt my head, keeping my eyes locked on him. “You want emotional? Try threatening her again.”
He smirks, then lets his eyes trail over my shoulder slowly, deliberately landing on Sin like he’s making a fucking point. “You sure sound like a man afraid to lose his girl.”
That’s when I move. Fist clenched. No warning, I punch him straight in the mouth. Bone cracks, his head snaps back and blood spatters against the pit floor. The second the handler steps in, gun drawn and safety off, the pit explodes.
Shouts. Curses. Rage.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Since when does the Syndicate play bodyguard?”
“Thought this was no-rules, no mercy!”
“All of us fight to the death, but this prick gets a leash?”
A fist slams into a workbench on the far side and metal tools scatter to the floor. One crew’s mechanic flips over an oil drum. Someone else kicks in the side panel of a junked-out racer. Drones tilt wildly trying to track the chaos. Even the betting boards glitch for a second before resetting with a sharp mechanical whine.
All eyes are on us now, onhim. Onme.
Not a single fucker in this pit likes Jace. Not really. They want the bounty, sure. Want the payday. The title. But they still believe in what The Gauntlet is supposed to be—kill or be killed. Earn your spot or die screaming. There’s no mercy. No rules. No protection. Until now, and it’s not just pissing them off. It’s making themhungry. Because if the Syndicate’s playing favorites? Then someone’s gonna bleed for it.
Jace wipes his bloody lip, but the arrogance is thin now. His eyes flick to the other racers watching, calculating.
Fucker isn’t protected. He’scaged. The handler presses his gun to my temple, popping the safety off with a sharp click. “Back off,” he growls.
Idon’t.
