Page 153 of Blood & Throttle

Torn pages of flash art litter the counters. A glass case still holds old gauges, rings, and a few faded sketchbooks. Most of the gear is covered in plastic sheeting that crackles under our boots.

Riot moves like he belongs here, like this chaos is just another language he speaks fluently. He kicks a stool into place, digs through a drawer, and pulls out a battered tattoo gun. A few ink bottles clatter beside it. He tests the weight of the machine in his hand, then holds it out to me.

I arch a brow. “You’re serious?”

He nods his head and drops into the chair. “Never been more serious in my life,”

My brain stutters. “I have no idea how to work one of these. You do know that, right?”

He peels off his shirt, the motion easy, practiced. He’s all lean muscle and violence—scars, bruises, the still-healing stitch I gave him across his ribs. “You’ll be fine. I want your name,” he says. “Right here.” He taps just above his heart, skin unmarked. Waiting.

I blink. “My name? That’s… permanent.”

His voice drops, low and dark. “Exactly.”

The silence after that says more than either of us can. My chest squeezes. He’s not doing this for show. He’s giving me the one part of him still untouched. Inviting me to mark him with something no one can take, and hell, that’s heavier than anything we’ve said.

I pull up another stool and tug on some gloves before grabbing a half-sanitized tray and wiping it down as best I can. It’s not exactly regulation. The bottle’s half-used, the needles old but clean.

Behind me, Riot climbs onto the table without a word, stretching out like he’s done this a hundred times—arms folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling like he’s already bored.

Cocky. Relaxed. Completely unbothered.

Typical.

“This place is a health code violation waiting to happen,” I mutter.

Riot smirks, kicking back lazily. “If the shit I’ve survived so far hasn’t killed me, this won’t either.”

I grin because fuck, he’s probably right.

Still, my hands shake as I load the needle and dip it in the ink. I check the grip, and freehand a quick stencil on tracing paper. Just my name. It’s crooked, and a little messy, but it’s mine.

I line it up in the small blank space over his heart, pressing the paper into his skin and peeling it back to leave the guide then I hover, gun buzzing in my grip.

“You nervous?” he asks, tucking my hair behind my ear.

I swallow. “Yeah. A little.”

“Don’t be. It’s mine now either way, just like you are,”

The first puncture is slow, careful. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, those eyes burning through every layer I thought I had left.

Ink seeps under his skin. Blood wells up, then beads away. My hand steadies after a few lines. His skin is warm, alive, every beat of his heart thudding under the needle like it’s agreeing with every mark I leave behind.

By the time I finish, sweat’s slicked down my back. I sit back, flexing my fingers.

“It’s fucking ugly,” I say laying the gun down on the tray.

Riot sits up, grabs my wrist and pulls me in close. “It’s perfect.”

He kisses me then—slow, filthy, claiming. His hands drag into my hips like he’s terrified I’ll slip through his fingers, like he needs me welded to him. It’s not a kiss for fun. It’s a brand. His lips taste like smoke, sweat, and mine. And when he finally pulls away, everything feels quieter. More certain. Like we’ve crossed some invisible threshold and there’s no turning back now.

I press my forehead to his for a second. My breathing’s unsteady. Shit, everything is. But for once, I’m not scared. Not of this.

I reach down, grab the tattoo gun, and push it into his palm.

“My turn.”