Page 16 of Blood & Throttle
Visor down. Face unreadable.
Two.
Riot flicks up his visor, blue eyes locking onto mine—cold, ruthless, final.
"Jump on."
Panic coils tight in my chest. My breath catches, my grip on the throttle locking up. Every instinct screams at me to keep riding, to find another way.
"No." The word is sharp and automatic. Useless.
His fingers tighten around the throttle, body coiled with tension. I can’t see his expression through the helmet, but I feel it. The impatience, the fury, the brutal certainty that I don’t have a fucking choice.
"Get the fuck on. Now."
One.
The tracker beeps faster. My heartbeat slams against my ribs.
Fuck.
I hate this. Hate that he’s right. Hate that I need him. Hate that my survival is in his hands.
I grit my teeth and launch myself off my bike, fingers grabbing for him, legs wrapping around the seat as I land hard.
Zero.
My bike detonates behind me, the explosion roaring like a beast, flames licking at my back as Riot rips us down the track.
The explosion slams into my back, a blast wave of heat and shrapnel roaring through the air.
Riot doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t slow.
Instead, he just twists the throttle and takes off down thetrack, cutting through the wreckage like the fucking reaper himself.
I barely catch my breath, my arms locked tight around his waist, my body pressed flush against his back. Every muscle under his leather jacket is hard, unyielding—built for war. The vibration of his bike hums between my thighs, shaking every nerve in my body.
And then there’s the scent of him.
Leather, smoke, sweat, and something darker, something lethal. Like burnt ozone before a storm, like the scent of asphalt after it’s been painted in blood.
“I swear, if we die because you were showing off,” I mutter against his shoulder.
"Still got your mouth, I see."
I sneer, my fingers digging into his jacket. "Still got my knife, too. Wanna find out where I’ll put it?"
Before I can blink, he yanks the handlebars, swerving the bike hard to the side.
My stomach drops.
I lurch, nearly sliding off the back, my grip scrambling for something—anything—before instinct kicks in I clamp my thighs around him, holding on for dear fucking life.
His smirk is damn near audible. "Maybe you should worry less about stabbing me and more about holding on."
He’s cocky and smug. Like he’s enjoying every second of this.
