Page 25 of Blood & Throttle

I feel it before I see it.

That slow, heavy weight of being watched. Of being hunted.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles, my muscles locking up for half a second before I force myself to keep moving. Casual. Unbothered. Like I don’t feel his stare cutting through the chaos of the warehouse, pinning me in place.

Then I see him.

Riot.

He’s across the room, leaning against his bike like he’s got all the time in the world, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, watching. Not the fights breaking out near the entrance. Not the mechanics tuning up their death traps.

Me.

A slow chill rolls down my spine, but it isn’t fear. It’s something heavier, something darker.

I hold his stare, refusing to be the first to break.

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite anything—but there’s something smug in his expression, something knowing. Like he already knew I’d look his way.

I roll my eyes, turn on my heel, and walk toward the showers, ignoring the way his gaze lingers on me the entire way. The corridor is damp, rusted, the air thick with humidity and mildew. No stalls, just half-broken partitions, exposed pipes, and a row of hanging sheets that barely count as privacy.

I step inside, hooking my clothes over the rusted pipe beside me. The second I twist the handle, the pipes groan like they’re about to burst, and a stream of hot water blasts down on me, stinging against my raw skin.

I inhale sharply, closing my eyes as the heat sinks into me, washing away the blood and grime.

My mind should be focused on survival. On Jace, on the races, on the fact that everyone in this place wants me dead.

But instead, I think about Riot.

The way his voice wrapped around that stupid fucking nickname—Little Stray. The way he smirked after throwing Jace to the ground like he was nothing. The way he looked at me just now, like he was already figuring out what he was gonna do with me.

I grit my teeth and scrub harder, ripping the thoughts from my head. He doesn’t matter. He’s just a racer, a threat, anasshole who thinks he owns the road. I won’t be here long enough for any of this to matter.

Except… I don’t have a bike. No way out.

Yet.

Tomorrow, I start looking. There’s a scrapyard near the pits, a graveyard of wrecked machines—bikes that didn’t make it, parts stripped, bodies left to rot. If I want a shot at winning, at getting the hell out of here, I need a bike.

And I’ll find one.

Even if it’s busted, even if I have to tear it down to the bolts and rebuild it from the ground up with nothing but spit and spite.

Because without one? I’m just waiting to die.

By the time I finish my shower, the warehouse is quieter, but the tension still lingers—thick, suffocating, pressing in like the whole place is waiting for something to snap.

I sling my towel around my neck, pulling my damp hair over one shoulder, and start toward my cot. My boots scuff against the concrete, the only sound in the space—until it’s not.

I feel it before I hear it. The shift. The weight of another presence behind me, too close, too quiet.

A half-second too late, I turn—

A hand clamps around my wrist, another grabs my shoulder, and I’m slammed against the rusted lockers hard enough to rattle my skull.

Jace’s men. Three of them. Same ones who were circling earlier.

“Took your time, sweetheart,” the first one sneers, fingers digging into my arm.