Page 44 of Blood & Throttle
Some people wear their sins in their eyes. Riot wears his on his fucking skin.
His racing leathers are undone at the top, his black shirt clinging to the sharp cut of his body, the ridges of muscle shifting beneath the fabric. His boots are scuffed, his gloves fingerless, and when he exhales, the smoke curls around his face, hiding the smirk pulling at his lips.
He looks like the devil, like something made for war.
And I hate that it works for him.
He turns his head, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine, and just for a second, the world shrinks. The crowd fades, the screams dull, the roar of engines turns into a hum beneath my skin.
Then, without a word, he steps toward me.
I expect him to throw out some cocky remark, something smug and infuriating. Instead, he takes the helmet from my hands.
I blink.
He doesn’t say anything as he lifts it, his fingers brushing beneath my chin, adjusting the strap before buckling it.
His hands are steady, confident.
His touch is careful.
My throat tightens. I should pull away. Should shove his hands off me and tell him to fuck off.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in my life, someone is worried about me.
And I don’t know how to feel about it.
He pulls back, exhaling slowly, like he’s holding something back, something dark and lethal. “We’re going to make it out of this,” he mutters, voice rough.
Not a question. A promise.
I lift my chin. “Yeah? And what if we don’t?”
His smirk is slow, dark. “Then I’ll at least make sure you fucking do.”
A slow clap echoes from behind us.
“Touching,” Jace drawls, stepping forward, helmet in hand. “Really. Almost had me tearing up.”
My pulse spikes.
He looks worse than he did last time I saw him. His bruiseshave deepened, the cut on his cheekbone swollen, the shadow of Riot’s fists still carved into his face.
He looks at me like he wants to bury me six feet under, but guess what? I don’t fucking flinch. If this bastard’s waiting to see me cower, he’s gonna be real fucking disappointed.
Riot doesn’t move either, just exhales another lungful of smoke, his fingers flexing at his sides. But I see the shift, the controlled violence lurking beneath his skin.
Jace tilts his head, grin sharp and mean. “Gonna be real fucking tragic when she’s nothing but bloodstains on the track by the end of the night, Carter. Almost makes me feel bad for her.”
Riot moves, but I react faster. I grab his arm, pressing against him, using my weight to pull him back.
His body is coiled tight, his muscles locked like steel cables but he doesn’t shove me off, doesn’t pull away.
Jace chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s cute. You got yourself a little leash now, Carter?”
Riot’s lips pull back, more snarl than smirk.
