Page 176 of Blood & Throttle

I don’t wait.

I snatch the tablet from his hands, grip so tight it creaks beneath my fingers.

And then everything goes still.

The crowd. The race. The fucking world.

Silent. Dead.

Because there she is.

Sin.

My Little Stray. Strapped to a chair like bait. Head slumped forward, mouth bloodied. One eye nearly swollen shut. Wrists chewed up by zip ties, skin raw and bleeding. Her chest rises in shaky breaths—she’s alive. Barely, but alive.

In front of her, Jace is pacing like the smug piece of shit he is, spinning a knife in his hand like he’s waiting for her to flinch.

But she won’t.

She’d never give him that.

Behind him, a shadow. A figure. Tall and still. Watching from the corner like a goddamn puppeteer behind the curtain.

And I know.

Even if I’ve never seen his face, I fucking know.

That’s Alaric Kane.

Every bone in my body recognizes him. Every scar, every sleepless night, every whispered order the Syndicate’s ever sentdown leads tohim. He doesn’t move. Justwatches, like this is entertainment.

My vision tunnels.

My blood boils like acid in my veins.

I feel the snap in my skull like a fuse catching fire.

And then I move.

“Fuck,” I growl, throwing the tablet back at Ghost. “Keep your eyes on her. Patch me in.Now.”

I storm off like a goddamn missile.

The first handler who steps into my path doesn’t even get a word out. I take a drag from my cigarette, blow the smoke into his face then press the cherry into his cheek.

He screams.

I grab his collar and slam my forehead into his nose with a sickening crunch—bone splits, blood sprays, and he crumples like wet laundry onto the pavement.

Panic erupts.

Racers freeze. Handlers stumble back. The crowd’s roar fractures into gasps and chaos. The OmniCast catches every second, every twitch of fury, every blow, live across every goddamn district.

Another Syndicate grunt makes the mistake of lunging at me.

I pivot, catch his wrist mid-swing, and twist until it snaps like dry wood. He screams but I silence it with a bullet to the throat.

A third charges. I don’t even look at him.