Page 173 of Blood & Throttle

I check the mag, nodding. “What’s the catch?”

Luca shrugs, brushing dust off his hoodie. “Don’t die.”

“That all?”

“Yeah. Mostly ‘cause if you do, I’d have to admit I actually like you.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, it’s loud and genuine. Then I lean in and kiss his cheek. “Too late, pretty boy.”

He mutters something about regretting everything and wanders back to Bishop, who’s got grease on his nose and zero patience for flirtation.

This crew... we’re chaos stitched together with blood and duct tape. But we’re a family, somehow.

Not one of them hesitated when they pulled me into this hell. Not one of them has flinched since.

The Widowmaker installed. HUD synced. Traps set.

Now all that’s left is the waiting, and I fucking hate waiting.

Later,in our room, Riot doesn’t say anything when we step inside. Just kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot, the sound echoing through the concrete like a warning, and tosses his gear onto the desk in a heavy clatter. The space is suffocating—raw cement walls, rust-stained sink, a bed that looks like it’s survived more blood than dreams. There’s no overheadlight, just the hum of the HUD cradle casting everything in a red glow and the emergency strip along the baseboard, flickering like a dying heartbeat.

I strip off my shirt, bones aching from the weight of the day, and dig a clean tank from the crate at the foot of the bed. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just… heavy. Riot watches from across the room while I change, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’s carved from it.

Above us, the LED banner scrolls across the cracked cement like a countdown to hell:

FINAL GAUNTLET RACE – SECTOR: DEADMOOR

NO CHECKPOINTS. NO MERCY. ALL BOUNTIES ACTIVE.

Below it, the leaderboard pulses.

Riot: 1.2 million

Sin: 2.8 million

I stare at the number like it belongs to someone else. But it doesn’t. It’s mine. They want me more than anyone. And tomorrow, every single rider out there is going to come hungry. They’ll smell blood in the air and see it written across my skin like a paycheck.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, boots kicked off. Riot doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

“You think this is it?” I ask, voice low.

His eyes stay locked on mine. “No,” he says. “It’s just another wall to tear through. And we’ve torn through worse.”

That hits something in me. Steady. Grounded.

My pulse ticks behind my ribs like a clock running out of time. I glance up at the red banner again. My name, my price, lit up like a fucking target.

“What about after?” I ask. “Say we win tomorrow. Say wemake it through. You really think Kane’s just gonna let me walk away?”

Riot pushes off the wall. Crosses the room like he owns it. Like he owns everything in it, including me. He sits beside me, close enough to feel his heat.

“If he tries?” Riot says, voice low, even. “Then we take care of him, too.”

I turn to face him. “Riot, he’ll come for me.”

“Then let him.” He meets my gaze, unflinching. “Let him try. Because he’s not getting to you without going through me. And if he thinks I’m afraid to put him in the ground, he hasn’t been paying attention.”

The words hit hard. No bravado. Just truth. Solid and sharp as a blade in the dark.