Page 183 of Blood & Throttle

Kane claws for advantage, landing a sharp elbow to Riot’s ribs. Riot grunts but doesn’t falter. He pins him again, hammering blows into his ribs, his face, his jaw until Kane finally throws a knee up into Riot’s gut.

The wind rips from his lungs as he crashes back onto the ground.

Blood spatters the floor as Kane scrambles up, dragging himself upright with a snarl. His face is a mask of fury and ruin. He lunges, fists swinging, and they collideagain—flesh against flesh, bone against bone. No technique now. Just violence. Just war.

The world narrows to blood, breath, and the sound of bodies breaking.

They crash into the table. Riot shoves him back. Kane lands a punch to Riot’s ribs, hard enough to make him stumble, but Riot grabs a metal pipe from the ground and swings. It misses Kane’s skull by inches, slamming into a support beam, denting the steel.

“Riot!” I scream.

He turns just as Kane slashes. The blade grazes his ribs but Riot grabs his wrist mid-swing and snaps it with a sickening crunch.

Kane bellows.

My heart is pounding so loud I can’t hear. I shift, twisting my arms, wrists screaming from the zip ties. I rock back, then forward, then slam my weight sideways.

Once.

Twice.

Crack.

On the third hit, the chair crashes to the ground. Pain sears through my side, but I grit my teeth, twisting until one of the wooden arms splinters beneath me. Sharp edges bite into my skin, but I don’t stop. I grind my wrist against the jagged wood, flesh tearing, blood slicking my palm.

Snap.

One arm free.

I breathe through the pain and reach down, fingers trembling as I tug the knife from my boot. I cut through the other tie, adrenaline turning every second molten. The chaos of the fight rages feet away—grunts, fists, snarls—but I don’t look. Not yet.

I push up, unsteady, snatch the blade in one hand then I see it. Riot’s gun, skidding across the floor. Dropped in the scuffle. I dive, grab it and click off the safety.

Kane has Riot pinned beneath him, blood dripping from both of them. He’s got the upper hand, pressing his blade down against Riot’s throat, ready to end it.

But I’m already behind him. And I press the barrel to the back of his skull.

“Enough,” I say.

Kane stiffens.

Riot stops mid-swing, panting, knuckles cracked open and gleaming.

“Get the fuck off him,” I murmur, the muzzle pressed to the back of his skull.

Riot groans beneath him, bloodied but alive, eyes flicking up to me—wild, wide, and burning with something feral.

I shove the barrel harder. “I said move.”

Slowly, Kane shifts off Riot. Hands raised, breath ragged. He turns his head just enough to glance at me, blood dripping from his temple.

I step around him, blade still clutched in one hand, gun in the other. My heart's a drumline, my skin on fire. I meet Kane’s gaze. He’s coughing, barely holding himself upright. But still smiling.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice cracked and laced with cruel pride. “Gun in your hand… rage in your eyes. Maybe thereismore of me in you than your whore of a mother after all.”

I press it to his forehead. I tilt my head, smirk twisting through the blood on my face.

“You were right about one thing,” I say sweetly. “Iamlike you.” I press the barrel to his forehead. Hard. “I’m not afraid tokill people who get in my way. Especially the ones who hurt what’s mine.”