Page 5 of Blood & Throttle
BLACKOUT – AViVA
You ever wakeup and just know it’s going to be a shit day?
Like, the kind of day where you stub your toe, spill coffee on your only clean shirt, and maybe get sentenced to death by an underground crime syndicate for a murder you didn’t commit?
Yeah. That kind of day.
The first thing I notice when I wake up is that my face fucking hurts.
The second thing? I can’t move my hands.
Great.
I exhale slowly through my nose, ignoring the throbbing in my skull as I blink up at the ceiling—if you can even call it that. It's just rusted-out beams, cracked metal, and a single flickering light that makes the shadows crawl.
The place smells like motor oil, mildew, and despair.
So, a warehouse.
Which means I’m likely still in Noxhaven.
And for now, that means I’m still alive.
I shift and plastic digs into my wrists, biting into raw skin.
Zip ties. Not cuffs. Cheap. Disposable. Whoever tied me up wasn’t planning on keeping me around for long.
I flex my fingers, testing the restraint, and grit my teeth when pain lances through my ribs. Bruised. Maybe cracked. My lip stings, and there’s the telltale iron taste of blood coating my tongue.
Some people wake up to coffee and pancakes. But not me. No, of courseIwake up bound, bleeding, and pissed the fuck off in some fucking grimy ass warehouse.
And I know why. I know exactly what they’re blaming me for—the murder of Alaric Kane’s son, heir to the most powerful crime syndicate in Noxhaven. A killing I didn’t commit, but that doesn’t matter.
The Syndicate doesn’t do trials. They don’t ask questions. They decide, they punish, and they make examples out of people like me.
I’ve done a lot of shit to survive, things I won’t pretend I regret. But this?
This wasn’t me. Not this time.
A door creaks open.
I go still. Predators notice prey when it twitches, and I’ll be damned if I give this bastard the satisfaction.
Footsteps echo against the concrete, slow and deliberate. Someone’s taking their time, dragging this out like it’s a fucking game. I don’t bother looking. I already know who it is.
Kane’s dog.
His name doesn’t matter. Never has. What matters is that he works for Alaric Kane—the same Alaric Kane whose son is dead. The same one I’m being framed for killing.
So, yeah. Definitelya shit day.
“Awake, are we?” His voice is smooth, practiced, and full of fake politeness.
I don’t answer. Just blink up at him, expression blank, boredom etched into every line of my face.
He crouches down in front of me, tipping my chin up with two fingers. His nails are manicured. Soft hands. A man who lets others do his dirty work.
Pussy.
