Page 174 of Blood & Throttle
“That’s what scares me,” I admit, barely above a whisper. “Not the race. Not even Kane. You. Getting yourself killed trying to protect me.”
Riot doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, he just leans in until our foreheads touch, his voice rough with conviction.
“I’m not dying tomorrow, Sin. Not in that pit. Not for him. Not for anyone. We face it together. One fight at a time. First Deadmoor. Then Kane. And after that? Whatever hell throws next, we take it.”
He pulls away just enough to stand and strip out of his shirt, then his pants. My eyes drag down as he drops onto the bed in just his briefs—his body all bruised steel and slow, lethal grace. My mouth goes dry when I catch the thick outline pressing against the fabric, impossible to miss in the crimson glow.
His gaze snaps to mine, catches the stare, and the way my lips part just slightly. He smirks, cocky and amused, and jerks his chin toward the pillow.
“Sleep, Little Stray. That mouth’ll be more useful tomorrow if it’s not dragging from exhaustion.”
I roll my eyes, but heat pulses low in my belly. “You didn’t get to finish earlier,” I murmur, stretching out beside him. “Thanks to Ghost.”
“I’m fine,” Riot says, his voice low and firm as his arm curls around my waist, hauling me against his chest. “Tonight I just want to hold you.”
I snort. “You really love bossing me around, huh?”
His smirk sharpens. “I don’t give orders, Sin. I give you what you need, even if you’re too stubborn to ask for it.”
I pout—just a little—but the fight’s already leaving my limbs. The moment his body presses to mine, steady and grounding, the adrenaline starts to fade.
“Cocky asshole,” I mutter, eyes already fluttering closed.
His lips brush my temple.
“And you love it.”
I do.
I curl tighter against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my palm, and finally, finally let sleep drag me under.
Tomorrow, the world burns.
But tonight, I’m his.
Thirty-Four
Riot
Riot Maker - Tech N9ne
You ever noticehow the sky’s always fucking blue on the worst days?
Like it’s laughing at you. Taunting you with how clear and bright it looks while everything down here’s rotting.
Deadmoor’s no exception. Today, the sky’s spotless. Not a single cloud. No smog to choke the light. Just sunbeams and silence, like nature didn’t get the memo that most of us won’t make it out of here alive.
It should be storming. Should be black and howling and brutal. But no, the world picked today to look clean.
Like it’s already wiped its hands of us.
The crowd’s already a riot of screams behind blood-slicked barriers. OmniCast drones are circling like vultures, hunting for the next viral kill shot. Syndicate banners flap overhead like flags at a funeral.
And there she is.
My Little Stray.
Gearing up like it’s just another goddamn day in hell.
