Page 36 of Blood & Throttle
Riot wraps the fabric around my ribs, pulling it snug, careful but firm. His fingers graze my skin, warm, and rough, sending a ripple of something I don’t have time to name through me.
“You bite,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “scratch, survive on scraps. But you’ve got no pack. No home.” His eyes flick to mine, burning, unreadable. “You’re just trying to outrun the next set of teeth.”
The words sink into me, clawing their way through my ribs.
I hate that they feel true.
I force a scoff. “Damn. You always this poetic?”
His smirk is slow, dangerous. “You always this deflective?” I narrow my eyes, but before I can fire back, he nods toward my ink. “What’s the story?”
I blink. “What?”
His gaze drags over my tattoos, some old, some newer, all black ink and jagged edges. His fingers brush a cluster of small tally marks along my ribcage, and I stiffen.
“What’s it mean?”
I swallow. “Why the fuck do you care, Reaper?”
Riot watches me for a beat, like he’s trying to peel my fucking skull open and read the pages inside.
The nickname hangs between us—Reaper. It wasn’t something he picked. It was earned. Given. Whispered first, then screamed. On the track, when the lights go green and the gates drop, he doesn’t just race, he hunts. Rivals don’t survive him, they vanish. Crashed. Burned. Gone.
They say if you see the Reaper in your mirror, it's already too late.
He shrugs. “Guess I don’t.”
Liar.
But I don’t press.
And neither does he.
He just finishes wrapping my ribs, hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before he stands.
I keep my expression neutral, watching as he grabs his cigarette off the crate, flicking ash onto the floor.
“That will have to do until we can get some more supplies,” he says, voice low. “Now get dressed, we’ve made the crew wait long enough.”
I arch a brow. "The crew?"
"You think I race alone?" He smirks, pulling on his jacket, already moving toward the door. "You’re not the only stray I picked up."
Taz stretches first, arching her back before hopping off the bed with a lazy shake of her head, ears flopping. I take that as my cue to get moving. The pile of clothes I grabbed last night is shoved against the foot of the bed, the denim shorts rough and stiff in my hands as I pull them on.
Riot doesn’t move, doesn’t turn away.
Of course, he doesn’t.
I pretend I don’t notice, pretend I don’t feel the weight of his gaze raking over me as I shimmy the shorts into place, buttoning them at my waist. The material is worn, frayed, but they fit well enough, hugging my hips just right.
The shirt?
That’s a different fucking story.
I grab the old, threadbare thing from the bin that lookeddecent enough at first glance. But the second I try to pull it over my head, I realize my mistake.
It’s too tight, too constricting.
