Page 138 of Blood & Throttle
I wasn’t supposed to survive this long. With no family, crew, and no protection, I was just a girl with a fake conviction and a target on her back. I should’ve been easy to erase.Should’ve gone down in the first round with blood in my mouth and boot prints on my spine.
But I didn’t.
Because while I didn’t walk into The Gauntlet with blood on my hands, I damn sure wasn’t afraid to earn some. They thought I’d break. Instead, I bared my teeth, and Riot? He did the one thing no one saw coming. He bet against himself. Against the system. For me.
Now I’m not just a convict they need to silence, I’m a threat they can’t afford to leave breathing. Kane knows it. He’s scrambling behind the scenes, tugging strings, shoving bodies in the way to keep the truth buried. Because if I make it to the end? If I live long enough to speak. To find out the truth?
I’ll make sure his empire burns.
He thought I’d die fast, easy, forgettable.
Wrong motherfucker.
The stray is still here, and I’m not done yet.
So here I am. Strapped into the next kill ride. Target on my back, bounty on my head, and the man I’d die for lighting a cigarette like he’s already decided whose blood he’s bathing in next.
I wipe the sweat off my temple with the back of my hand, smearing grease into the corner of my jaw. Doc’s absence still echoes in the quiet. The garage doesn’t hum the same without her voice checking in, her hands passing tools with precision, her quiet reminders to eat, to sleep, to breathe. And now she’s gone, the boys are fraying. Riot’s colder. Ghost’s jumpier. Luca’s quieter. Bishop’s got a new crack in his armor that even welding torches can’t burn out.
And me? I’m holding it together with duct tape and spite.
The bike’s prepped. Mostly. Riot’s been at it for hours—grinding, soldering, welding like he can fix the ache in hischest by making sure I don’t die in the next ten seconds. Every inch of it screams protection. From the reinforced forks to the hidden grip mods. And bolted just above the rear fork? My little demon. Still smirking. Still warning.
I glance toward Riot. He hasn’t looked at me since the handler walked Jace out of the pit, but his jaw is still tight, cigarette burning down between two fingers like he wants something to suffer for what just happened. For what’s coming.
The worst part is, we both know we don’t get to do anything about it. Not yet.
Not until that horn sounds.
Not until the lights drop and the engines scream and all the Syndicate’s cameras are rolling. Because if we’re going to take Jace out, if we’re going to send a message to Kane so loud it echoes through every gilded fucking tower he hides behind?
We’re gonna do it on the track.
Where there are no rules.
And no one left to save him.
The city glowslike it’s bleeding neon.
Not in some poetic, beautiful way, more like the sky split open and someone dumped a bag of glowsticks and broken promises across it. Halcyon Verge doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. It pulses. Twitches. Flickers like a dying screen stuck between frames. My stomach’s been tight since we crossed the gates, and it hasn’t loosened once.
We weave through the pits like we belong here. Riot doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. The whole district feels wired for destruction, and he’s already the spark.
Above us, a massive screen lights up—and there I am. The footage cuts in sharp: me on top of Jace, gun jammed between his teeth, rage written in blood and fury across my face. The feed glitches right before the part where the handler pulled a gun on me. Of course it does. Can’t let the public see that the Syndicate’s idea of fair play includes aiming a weapon at an unarmed girl.
The caption below reads “SYNDICATE BROADCAST LIVE: NEON NIGHTMARE INITIATED” with the Syndicate’s sigil pulsing behind it.
I grind my teeth and press closer to Riot’s back, cheek against his spine. His scent is smoke and war. I can feel his pulse, steady and brutal. He hasn’t said a word since we left the warehouse, but he doesn’t have to.
This whole district is wired like a live grenade and Riot’s the one holding the pin.
We reach our zone and he kills the engine with a twist, before we both dismount in sync. I tug my helmet off, my braid sticking to the back of my neck, and stretch just enough to pop my shoulder back into alignment.
Riot moves to the edge of the grid, helmet in hand, jaw clenched tight. I watch him for a beat, how his eyes catch fire every time a flare bursts over the track, reflections of violence dancing in them. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even flinch, just lifts the helmet and pulls it down over his head like armor.
Like he’s already bracing for war.
Screens overhead shift again—static flickers, pixels twitch—and then it’s Jace.
