Page 172 of Blood & Throttle

Just watches me with that unreadable heat in his eyes, like he’s daring me to make it a moment. To make it mean something.

I don’t stop running my thumb over the engraving.

Because it’s not just a bullet. Not just metal and memory.

It’s a promise.

That no matter what the next race brings—win, lose, live, or die—I’m not going in alone.

Not this time.

Riot crouches beside Ghost, elbow-deep in the guts of the Widowmaker mod, twisting a torque wrench like it personally offended him. Sparks fly as Ghost fuses another wire bundle to the control housing, the flicker lighting up the garage in bursts of blue and gold. The place stinks of oil and metal, the floor littered with tools, scrap, and someone’s half-eaten protein bar I’m not asking about.

Taz paces behind me, her claws clicking against concrete, ears flattened like even she knows this mod might get us both killed. She hasn't stopped pacing since we got here. That twitchy, coiled energy—the kind animals get before earthquakes.

Across the garage, Luca and Bishop are rigging perimeter traps like it’s a goddamn war zone. Shrapnel grenades. Crushed fuel cells. Trip wires made from salvaged brake cable. Industrial murder glitter.

“You know,” I call out, spinning the bullet keychain once more, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you two enjoy killing as much as Reaper over here.”

Bishop doesn’t even pause. “We do.”

Luca flashes a grin as he finishes tying off a strip of barbed wire to a gas canister. “It’s called pest control.”

I snort and glance at the ceiling where faded graffiti spells outGLORY OR DEATHin peeling red paint. Fitting. This isn’t a garage anymore. It’s a tomb getting dressed for the party.

Behind me, Ghost slides the newly integrated HUD display over Riot’s modded dash and gives it a light tap. “You sure this thing’ll hold?”

“No,” Riot says, without looking up. “But I’m gonna use it anyway.”

I cock a grin, sharp and crooked. “Touching. You should write slogans for those Hallmark cards.”

Riot smirks, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and glances at me over his shoulder. “Hallmark? You want romance, Stray? I’ll survive tomorrow just so I can keep pissing you off for the rest of your life.”

He finally looks at me, really looks, and I hate that heat coils low in my stomach. The kind that’s half lust, half something darker. Riot’s built like a brawl—broad chest, veined forearms, tattoos peeking past the edges of his rolled sleeves. He looks like the devil fucked a street fighter and dumped the result on a bike.

And he’s mine.

Even if I didn’t ask for it. Even if I don’t know how to keep him.

"Don’t get soft on me now," I say, tossing him a towel. "I like you better when you’re a menace."

He grins, all teeth. “I might go soft for you, Little Stray, but where it counts?” His eyes drop low, voice rough. “Always hard.”

Cocky bastard.

I smirk, dragging my gaze down deliberately slow. “Good. I’d hate to waste all this attitude on a faulty weapon.”

The Widowmaker’s housing locks into place with a sharp hiss of steam and one final spark that spits across the floor. Riot leans back on his heels, eyes tracking the mod like it just growled approval.

“It’ll hold,” Ghost says, voice steady. “But if you push past five minutes on the boost, you risk frying the whole system.”

Riot rises, stretching his neck with a crack. “Then we win in four.”

Luca finishes setting up a sensor relay and heads over, tossing me something small and cold. I catch it on instinct.

A backup pistol. Slim. Matte black. Polished.

“Safety’s finicky,” he says. “Kick it hard if it jams.”