Page 104 of Blood & Throttle

But under the scars? She’s still a goddamn monster.

Custom Ducati Panigale V4. Rebuilt from wreckage and spite. Carbon fiber plating, bulletproof side panels, Kevlar-reinforced wheels. Twin retractable blades that’ve tasted more blood than half the racers still breathing. A short-range EMP rig snuggled beneath the chassis. Front axle spikes that don’t just shred—they erase.

She’s fast. Mean. Smarter than she was two weeks ago.

And if she goes down, she’s taking someone with her.

“New motion rig’s online,” I mutter, double-checking the diagnostics. “Smart pulse sensors are tracking thermal changes within six feet. That’ll give us a heads-up before the spikes slice us in half.”

Bishop crouches beside me with a protein bar that looks like it was pried off a construction site. “You planning on not getting shot this time?”

I smirk without looking up. “Wasn’t planning on it last time, either.”

“Yeah, well, let’s try manifesting it harder,” he mutters. “Doc’s the only one who knows how to stitch any of us up, and well, clearly she won’t be doing that anytime soon. If you bleed again, we’re screwed. I faint at papercuts.”

I snort and nudge the sensor chip into place with the tip of the soldering tool. “You worried about me, Bishop?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “But I like having my whole crew alive. Makes the breakfast banter less depressing.”

I glance up just in time to see the way his eyes flick toward Riot, like he’s not just talking about me.

Across the room, Riot leans against a stack of crates, arms folded, jaw clenched, watching me like he’s ready to pounce at the first sign of smoke. He hasn’t said a word since I started rewiring the HUD panel. Not even when Bishop offered to help. He just stands there—silent, wound tight, and twitchy in that murdery way that means someone’s getting broken if I so much as wince wrong.

And yeah, I get it.

Between Doc getting wrecked by Jace’s crew and the sniper that nicked me last race, Riot’s been locked in at full kill mode. He’s always been protective, always had that barely-leashed violence simmering just under the surface, but now? It’s worse. There’s this quiet desperation in the way he watches me, like if he lets me out of his sight for more than a second, I’ll disappear too. Like he’s already mourning something that hasn’t happened yet.

The graze on my thigh’s healing, but it’s still tender when I shift. Riot pretends not to notice when I limp. But he does. Asshole notices every breath and every goddamn twitch. I swear he catalogues it like intel for war.

And maybe, for the first time in my life, I don’t hate that.

But I still want him to know I’m not his burden. I’m not his responsibility. He's not here to save me, and he sure as hell isn’t responsible for keeping everyone alive.

We survive this together. Or we don’t.

But I’m not going to let him bleed himself dry trying to play executioner and savior in one.

Even if a small, dark part of me finds comfort in theway he looks at me like I’m the only thing in this nightmare worth protecting.

Above us, Ghost is perched in the rafters like a dystopian gargoyle. Laptop on one knee, cords spilling from his backpack like tech intestines. He’s tracking movement patterns from the lower levels—snipers, Syndicate shifts, probable kill zones. I don’t ask where he got the access.

I never do.

Luca’s buried in the corner, elbows deep in the carcass of a busted drone. He’s muttering about vibration mapping and recalibrating thermal dispersal modules, whatever the hell that means. Most of his brain is code and caffeine. Half of what he knows, Doc taught him. The rest? He learned from not dying.

He hasn’t said much today. Which is how I know he’s worried.

We all are.

It’s been two days since we rolled into The Hollow, and Doc still hasn’t woken up.

She’s stable. Breathing. But… still.

Too still.

Maggie’s keeping her alive, doing whatever med magic she can with limited gear, shaking hands, and a look in her eye like she’s seen too much. Riot hasn’t said a word about it. Which, in Riot-language, means he’s one insult away from snapping a handler’s spine just to hear it crack.

And me?