Page 23 of Blood & Throttle
He’s not done with me. And I doubt he’s the only one already planning how to put me in the ground.
And then there’s Riot.
That cocky, arrogant, downright psychotic asshole.
It should’ve been satisfying as hell to watch him lay Jace the fuck out, to see the smug bastard crumple like a cheap chair.
But it wasn’t.
Because Riot didn’t do it for me.
He did it because he wanted to. Because someone made a comment he didn’t like. Because he felt like it.
Because Riot Carter doesn’t follow rules—he makes them.
And just like that, without me asking, without me wanting it, I’ve been dragged into his world, his war, his fucking orbit.
I don’t owe him shit. I don’t fucking need him.
But damn it all to hell, for someone so unhinged… he’s disgustingly, and unfairly fucking hot.
But in The Gauntlet, no one leaves. That’s the unspoken rule. The second you step into this world, you either ride out a champion or get carried out in a body bag. There’s no quitting, no walking away. You’re in until you win, you die, or the Syndicate gets bored and decides you’re not worth keeping around.
Lucky me.
Right now? I’m their shiny new plaything.
“Vega.”
The rough voice yanks me out of my thoughts. My body moves before my brain catches up, muscles tensing, fists curling tight as I snap toward the sound.
The grizzled old bastard standing in front of me barely blinks, unimpressed. One of The Gauntlet’s organizers—face like worn-out leather, eyes dull and cold like he’s seen too many men die to care anymore.
“Let’s go,” he grunts. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
I snort, shaking off the lingering adrenaline still clinging to my bones. “Quarters?” I echo, arching a brow. “What, you got a fucking turn-down service too? Maybe some spa robes? Room service?”
His mouth twitches into something that’s not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’ve got pillow mints and everything.”
I let out a sharp laugh, dry and mean. “Oh, good. Was worried this was gonna be a shithole.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just turns on his heel toward the warehouse like my existence is nothing more than another inconvenience. “Get moving.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, annoyance grinding against my ribs. I should keep running my mouth, but my ribs hurt like a bitch, I’m exhausted, and right now, survival outranks pride.
For now.
I roll my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Fine. Lead the way.”
The walk through the compound is a tour through the graveyard of what used to be civilization—rusted scaffolding, skeletal remains of buildings that once mattered. Busted bikes and burned-out cars litter the pavement like the corpses of past riders who weren’t fast enough, lucky enough, or ruthless enough to survive. Neon signs flicker overhead, half the letters dead, leaving behind broken, meaningless words.
SUN _ET MO_EL.
Sunset Motel.
Yeah. Real fucking ironic.
The air is thick with oil, sweat, and blood, so much fucking blood. It clings to the asphalt, to the walls, to the people who’ve been here long enough to forget what clean smells like.
