Page 39 of Blood & Throttle
Bishop grins, tossing me a rag. "Alright, well if you’re gunna stick around, grab a wrench, sweetheart."
"Enough chit-chat," Riot cuts in, his voice dropping back into that smooth, commanding edge. "We’ve got a race to win."
The smirk fades from Luca’s face. Bishop and Doc exchange a look. Even Ghost finally lifts his head.
"First round of The Gauntlet is in forty-eight hours," Riot continues, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "The Bone Yard." His eyes flick to me, sharp and certain. "And with Sin riding with me, we’ve got a lot of fucking adjustments to make."
Silence. Tension. The weight of what’s coming settling over the room like a storm about to break.
No one argues. No one questions.
Because this? What Riot is doing, riding with me… it changes everything.
Eight
Riot
Violence - Grimes, i_o, Rezz
Sparks fly from the grinder,the scent of metal shavings and gasoline is thick in the pit as Sienna tightens a bolt near the rear suspension. I lean against a rusted crate, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from my lips, watching.
She knows what she’s doing. I figured she’d at least be able to change her own damn oil, maybe tighten a chain, but this? This is more than just basic maintenance. She’s tweaking the alignment, adjusting the throttle response, modifying the fucking footpegs for better balance.
And fuck if that doesn’t do something to me.
More than it fucking should.
Not just because she’s good at it, but because it’s hot watching her. A woman who doesn’t just ride but knows her way around a machine like it’s in her blood. A woman who doesn’t take shit, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t wait for someone else to handle it.
She’s different. Tough in a way that has nothing to do withstrength and everything to do with survival. She shouldn’t have to be, but fuck if it doesn’t make her even more tempting.
Stubborn. Reckless. Deadly.
And fuckingmine.
I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders, feeling the dull ache from working on the bike all goddamn night settle deep in my bones. The rest of the crew tapped out hours ago, I should’ve too. Should’ve dragged her stubborn ass back to my quarters, made her rest, made her stop.
But she wasn’t fucking done.
And instead of telling her to sit her ass down like I should’ve, I lit another cigarette, leaned against the crate, and let her keep working.
Now, she’s straddling the seat, reaching forward to adjust the brake tension, her fingers steady and precise. But the second she shifts, her body locks up, a flicker of something tight crossing her face, small and quick.
But not quick enough.
I fucking catch it.
The subtle tremor in her hand, the way she rolls her shoulders too carefully—like every inch of her fucking ribs is screaming.
“Sin.”
She ignores me, shifting again, jaw tight.
I push off the crate. “Sin.”
Nothing.
The moment she tries to adjust again, I move.
