Page 8 of Blood & Throttle
Bone meets bone.
His head snaps to the side, his laugh turning into a choked grunt. Blood splatters across his teeth, his knees buckling before he drops.
The pit erupts in shouts and laughter, half of them entertained, the other half waiting to see just how bad this is about to get.
The guards lunge too fucking slow.
I move first snatching the gun off the handler I dropped, flicking the safety off in the same breath, while my other hand rips the sidearm straight off his buddy’s belt. My ribs scream, my body protests, but I don’t flinch.
Because pain doesn’t fucking matter.
Not when I’ve got a gun in each hand and a room full of bastards underestimating me.
I aim one right between the handler’s bloodied face, the other at the skull of the idiot still reaching for me.
Not shaking. Not hesitating.
"Touch me again," I purr, "and I’ll put a bullet through your fucking hand. Or your head. Depends on how hormonal I’m feeling."
The pit goes still.
The laughter dies, the tension so thick I can taste it.
I smirk, shifting my weight like I have all the time in the goddamn world. Like I’m just debating which one of them eats a bullet first.
“Go on, boys.” I tilt my head, cocking both guns. “Test me.”
I cock the hammer, aiming between the handler’s eyes.
For a second, just a second, I think I’ve won.
Then, something cold and sharp presses under my chin.
A knife.
And the man holding it?
I know who he is before I even look.
Everyone does.
Riot Carter is The Gauntlet’s golden boy, the undefeated king of the track, the one-man wrecking crew who kills with precision and rides like the devil himself built his machine.
And right now, he has a knife pressed under my chin.
The blade is cold, razor-sharp, biting into my skin just enough to warn, but not enough to break.
Yet.
He's tall. Over six feet of raw power, built like a streetfighter, like the violence of this world shaped him with its bare hands. His grip is steady, unshakable like he’s done this a thousand times before. Maybe he has.
Dark hair, tousled like he’s just ripped his helmet off. His face is all angles and arrogance, with a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a mouth that looks like it’s never smiled without cruelty.
But it’s his eyes that make my stomach clench.
Pale blue. Cold as steel. They flick over me slowly, assessing, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth breaking or just discarding.
Tattooed knuckles grip the knife, veins prominent, hands rough from years of racing, fighting, and surviving. His leather jacket is open, the ink covering his chest shifting with every controlled breath.
