Page 35 of Blood & Throttle
Riot doesn’t respond, just stands there, unmoving, staring me down like he’s daring me to argue. Like he already knows I won’t win.
I exhale sharply, crossing my arms under my chest.
His gaze drops. Not quick. Not subtle.
The heat in his eyes burns through me, tracing over the bruises along my ribs, the cuts marring my skin, the ink etched into my body. His lips press together, jaw ticking, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
He just kneels.
Right in front of me.
And fuck, something about it makes my breath catch.
I don’t know what I expected from him, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
Men don’t kneel for me.
They don’t take care of me.
I don’t exist to them beyond what they can take. What they can break.
But Riot? He’s here, on his knees, cleaning my wounds like he fucking cares.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I shift, uncomfortable, masking it with a scoff. “Didn’t peg you as the caretaker type.”
His smirk is slow and sharp. “You don’t know shit about me, Little Stray.”
I roll my eyes, wincing as he presses a whiskey-soaked rag to a cut on my ribs. “I know you like bossing people around.”
He tilts his head, gaze flicking up to mine. “And you like mouthing off. You always this fucking difficult?”
I smirk through the sting. “You always this fucking controlling?”
His lips tug at the corner, but the amusement in his eyes is sharp. “Yeah.”
I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. “Must be exhausting, trying to own everything in your goddamn radius.”
Riot hums, dragging the rag lower, wiping away dried blood. “Not everything, just what’s mine.”
I freeze.
He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t give me a second to argue before he moves again, pressing his fingers into my side, testing the damage.
I hiss, my body going rigid.
His jaw locks. “Two ribs are broken. Maybe three.”
I snort. “Maybe?”
He gives me a look. “Well I don’t have a fucking X-ray, Little Stray.”
I clench my jaw, glaring at the top of his head. “You don’t have to keep calling me that.”
“Sure I do.” He reaches for the bandages. “Fits you.”
I huff a breath, irritated. “How’s that?”
