Page 117 of Blood & Throttle

It’s not the first time I’ve been shot.

Probably won’t be the last.

It fucking sucks. Hurts like hell. But pain like this? It’s familiar. Predictable. Something I can ride through. I’ve trained my body to outlast agony.

If I hadn’t seen it when I did, the shot would’ve taken her. Two inches higher and it would’ve ripped through her spine.

The thought sends more heat through my chest than the bullet ever could. Sin shouts my name, panic threading through her voice for the first time.

I don’t respond. Don’t flinch. Just lean harder into the curve, force the bike back under control.

“I’m good, Little Stray,” I growl, even though I’m not.

“You’re not,” she snaps, fury crackling under the surface. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a graze,” I lie.

“It’s a fucking hole.”

“Shut up and hold on.”

I feel her hesitate behind me, caught between cursing me out and doing what I said. She doesn’t argue again.

But I feel her move.

Her hand leaves the panel. She draws her sidearm with smooth, deliberate purpose.

One second. That’s all she needs.

She twists at the waist, balances the gun one-handed and pulls the trigger.

One clean shot.

The bullet punches straight through Vex’s forehead. Skull fragments burst into the air. His body drops off Jace’s bike like dead weight. No scream. No sound. Just impact.

Gone.

Jace swerves and catches himself. Barely.

But I’m already gone—throttle down, teeth clenched, blood running hot down my side. Every bump stabs like a blade twisting deeper, but I don’t slow down.

Can’t.

The finish line’s still ahead, the ramp fractured and bathed in flickering drone light like a spotlight on a stage built to break us. They’re watching. Recording. Feeding this to every screen in every district.

Let them.

Let them see what survival looks like when it bleeds.

Let them see what happens when you shoot at what’s mine.

The bike diesbeneath us the second we cross the line.

No dramatic finish. No victory roar. Just a choked metallic death rattle and a hiss of smoke as the frame buckles under the pressure.

Sin is off before it even settles, her boots hitting the pavement like a war drum. She rips her helmet off, hair damp and wild, clinging to her sweat-slick cheeks. Her jacket’s scorched along the right shoulder, blood crusted at her temple, but shemoves like she didn’t just ride through hell. Like she was made in it.

I swing my leg off the bike slower, body on fire. The wound in my side’s gotten worse—hot, wet, every step dragging more blood down my hip. My ribs feel fractured and breathing’s a battle.