Page 17 of Blood & Throttle

I growl under my breath. "Maybe you should shut the fuck up."

Another low chuckle. "Nah. I like hearing you whine."

Fucker.

A rush of heat floods my face, my nails digging into the leather at his stomach before I can stop myself.

"I swear to god—"

"Swear later." His voice is nothing but gravel and menace. "Right now, try not to fucking fall off."

I grit my teeth, pressing my cheek against his back, feeling the raw power of him, the heat of his body, and the steady, ruthless heartbeat under my palms.

“Good girl,”

This motherfucker.

I’m going to kill him.

If we survive this, I am absolutely fucking killing him.

The final stretch is a blur of wreckage and screams. The track is littered with bodies, burning bikes, the last desperate efforts of racers who refuse to die without taking someone with them.

Riot cuts through them like a goddamn executioner.

One racer moves to block us, his tires spike-rigged, built to shred anything that gets too close.

Riot growls, low and amused. "Hold on."

He jerks the bike hard, metal colliding with metal, clipping the bastard’s front tire at the perfect angle. The racer wobbles, overcorrects—

And then we leave him in the fucking dirt.

Another comes from the side, blade snapping out from his fairing, aiming for my thigh.

I see it a second too late, but Riot doesn’t.

His hand snatches the knife from his thigh holster and flicks it with a precision that should be impossible at this speed.

The blade buries deep into the bastard’s exposed leg.

He screams, swerves—

And then crashes into the guardrail at 120 mph.

I barely hear his body hit the pavement before we’re already gone.

The finish line looms ahead but the crowd isn’t cheering anymore—they’re screaming, confused, furious, watching their bets go up in flames.

I dig my fingers into Riot’s jacket, adrenaline still slamming through my bloodstream.

We cross the line together.

And the world slows.

The neon strobes flicker. The crowd is a deafening riot of disbelief, curses, and howls of outrage.

I inhale sharply, my cheek still pressed against Riot’s back, his scent a mix of sweat, smoke, and leather.