Page 6 of Blood & Throttle
I don’t flinch, don’t jerk away. He wants a reaction, and I don’t give free shit to bastards like him.
“Where the fuck am I?” My voice comes out rough, like I gargled gravel, but there’s still bite behind it.
He smiles. One of those condescending, ‘you’re already dead’ smiles, like he thinks I’m weak enough to break under it.
“The starting line.”
My stomach knots, but I keep my expression smooth.Fuck.
The Gauntlet.
It’s worse than I thought.
I was expecting a quick execution, maybe a bullet to the back of the head. Something clean. Not this. Not a public execution disguised as a race. They want a show. They want me to bleed for them.
“You made quite a mess for yourself, sweetheart,” Kane’s dog continues, voice smooth as rotting silk. “Killing the boss’s son? Bold move.”
I tilt my head, arching a brow and keeping my tone sweet. “And yet, here I am, still breathing. So either Kane’s getting soft, or you idiots know I didn’t do it.”
The slap comes fast. My head snaps to the side, the sting sharp and bright.
"Watch your fucking mouth."
I drag my tongue over my teeth, tasting blood and smirk. Then I spit it right in his face.
His expression barely flickers, but his jaw tightens. That’s all the warning I get before his fist slams into my ribs, sharp and brutal—a punch meant to break something.
Pain explodes through my side, but I just laugh, because fuck him, and fuck Kane.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience. "It doesn’t matter whether you did it or not. Kane wants blood, and yours is convenient."
Of course. Truth doesn’t mean shit in Noxhaven.
Kane doesn’t want justice. He wants a fucking show.
And I’m the perfect opening act.
I already know how this works. They don’t want to dig too deep, because the moment they do, they’ll see the truth—Kane killed his own son. Probably because the bastard was a liability. Or maybe Kane just got bored and needed a fresh corpse to keep the fear alive.
But a father killing his own blood? That’s bad for business.
So they need a scapegoat. And lucky me—I fit the part.
A criminal past. A messy reputation. A bad habit of pissing off the wrong people.
They needed someone to take the fall.
And I was already standing too close to the edge.
Kane’s dog stands, adjusting the cuffs of his overpriced suit like this is just another business deal. He’s tall, built like a man who lets others do his dirty work, but the scars along his knuckles say he enjoys getting his hands bloody when it suits him. Dark hair slicked back, sharp jaw, dead eyes—the kind of bastard who smiles when he kills.
He smooths a hand down his tie, barely glancing at me. "Get her ready."
Then he turns and walks out, leaving the door wide open behind him.
A beat later, two men step in—built like walls, faces blank, the Syndicate’s usual brand of disposable muscle. They grab me, yank me to my feet, and cut the zip ties with a quick flick of a knife.
I don’t resist.
