Page 78 of Blood & Throttle
Because I’m pretty sure some of us won’t be leaving it with our bones intact.
I walk like I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to prove because I do. My black tactical pants cling tight. Combat boots bite the ground with each step. My cropped Kevlar jacket’s cut high enough to show ink,but low enough to make anyone staring regret it.
And the helmet I’ve got under my arm? Scuffed, black, and pissed off.
Same as me.
Riot’s beside me, towering and carved from fuck-you energy. His armor looks like it was dragged out of a grave and reforged in a riot—matte black, reinforced, silent. His helmet’s got a crimson slash across it that isn’t paint, and nobody’s brave enough to ask.
They’re watching us.
Every crew.
Every rider.
Every Syndicate handler leaning over the rails with credits in their eyes and blood in their teeth.
Some of racers are riding in pairs now.
Not because it’s smart, just because they think riding in pairs gives them some kind of edge. Like slapping a second body on a bike suddenly makes them invincible.
I grin to myself.
Cute.
Let them play copycat. They still don’t stand a chance.
There are no rules in The Gauntlet. No safety nets. No alliances. Just teeth, speed, and bodies on the concrete.
And while they’re trying to figure out how to get the upper hand on us?
We’re already two moves ahead.
Bishop’s the first to crack the silence.
“Well, good morning, lovebirds,” he says, grinning as he flicks a cigarette into the dirt. “Get any sleep?”
Luca huffs. “She definitely didn’t.”
Ghost doesn’t even pretend to be involved. He just flicks a glance at me, then at Riot, then back at the floor like he’s mentally counting how many ways this ends badly.
I smirk. “Next time I’ll scream Luca’s name. Keep things interesting.”
He chokes. “Please don’t.”
“Enough,” Riot growls, already stepping between us like he thinks someone’s going to try me in broad daylight.
And honestly, they might. The whisper’s already out that there’s a bet. One-point-four million credits, dead or dying, on me. No face, no confirmation. Just a name passed from one pit to the next, sparking kill plans in the heads of every desperate bastard with a death wish and a gun. Let them try. Ihopethey do.
We mount up in silence,besides the sound of the crowd screaming and the smell of fire thick in the air.Not with the drones circling like vultures. Not when every person in this yard wants to cash in on my corpse.
Riot’s checking the rear tire like it might be the thing that decides if we live or die, but I can feel his eyes on me every few seconds. Tracking me, like he needs to.
I’m adjusting my gloves when he finally speaks. His voice is low. Rough. “I like seeing it.”
I blink. “What?”
He nods once, chin tilting toward my collarbone exposed by the edge of my jacket.
