Page 18 of Blood & Throttle

We fucking made it.

But before relief can settle, something else does.

This wasn’t the real race.

This was just a test.

A warm-up.

A chance for The Syndicate to see what we can do before they throw us into the real fucking show.

And the Final Gauntlet?

That’s when the real monsters come out.

I swallow hard, my fingers still curled into Riot’s jacket, gripping the leather like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

His voice is low. Rough. Almost amused.

"You still breathing back there, Little Stray?"

I exhale slowly. Then smirk, even though my fucking legs are shaking.

"Disappointed?"

Riot chuckles, dark and quiet, like he already knew I was going to survive.

"Nah," he murmurs. "After all, I did bet on you."

Four

Riot

Worldwide Choppers - Tech N9ne

GuessI just fucked up everyone's night.

We cross the line together. The crowd erupts—some cheering, most screaming in outrage. The sound of it is a fucking storm, a riot of disbelief and fury as the realization sets in.

They lost. I won.

And most importantly, she’s still breathing.

I roll the throttle back, the Ducati growling beneath me as I bring us to a hard stop. Sienna’s arms are still locked around my waist, her breath ragged against my back, her fingers curled into my jacket like she hasn’t realized the race is over. I feel every inch of her, the heat of her body, the tension in her grip. Her heart is still racing, matching mine beat for beat.

For a second—just a single fucking second—I don’t move.

Then I kill the engine.

Sienna slowly peels herself off me, swinging her leg over the seat, boots hitting the pavement. She’s unsteady, but she doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate. She just stands there, chestrising and falling, covered in sweat, blood, and adrenaline. I glance sideways, watching her.

She should be dead. Burned out, broken, another smear of blood on the track.

But she’s not.

And now? Now, she’s a goddamn problem.

I barely swing off the bike before I hear the storm coming.