Page 33 of Blood & Throttle

The pit is still waiting, watching.

There’s no way in hell I’m letting anyone make a move on her.

Not while I’m breathing.

Not while she’s mine.

Seven

Sienna

Knife Under My Pillow - Maggie Lindermann

I wake up to pain.

It’s the first thing I register—the deep, sharp ache in my muscles, the dull throb of bruises blooming across my ribs, the sting of open scrapes on my knuckles. Everything fucking hurts.

The second thing I register is warmth, and it takes me all of thirty seconds to realize it’s not mine.

Something heavy is sprawled across my stomach, radiating heat like a goddamn furnace. The dim light flickers as I blink my eyes allowing them time to adjust, muscles tensing—until I realize it’s just Taz. The Pitbull is curled up against me, her big, blocky head resting on my hip like she’s decided I’m hers now.

I huff out a quiet breath, smirking. Figures. The meanest bastard in this place has a dog that supposedly hates everyone—except me. And if last night was anything to go by, that pisses Riot off more than anything.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, then I feel it.

A stare.

My body reacts before my brain catches up, a sharp jolt of awareness shooting down my spine as my gaze snaps toward the open doorway.

Riot.

Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, cigarette between his lips, watching me.

Just fucking watching.

I prop myself up on my elbows, forcing down the fresh wave of pain rolling through me. “You watching me sleep, Carter? That’s fucking creepy.”

His smirk is slow, and sharp. “You breathe loud.”

I scoff, stretching just enough to test my limits, wincing when the ache in my ribs tightens. “What? Expecting to find a corpse?”

Riot exhales smoke, watching me like he’s still deciding if saving me was worth the trouble. “Would’ve been less of a headache.”

Motherfucker.

I grit my teeth, ignoring the way his voice slides down my spine like oil over an open flame. I sit up fully, biting back a groan, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

Taz barely stirs, still pressed against me like she’s claimed me as her own personal pillow. Riot doesn’t move either. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink. Just watches.

I glare. “You gonna stand there all day, or you got something to say?”

He finally pushes off the doorframe, flicking ash onto the floor, and that’s when I actually take him in.

He’s shirtless.

The dim light casts shadows over every cut of muscle, lean but powerful, carved from years of violence and control. Hisentire body is inked—black and gray designs crawling up his throat, bleeding down his chest, wrapping his ribs, covering his arms. His hands, too. Even his knuckles. A full fucking canvas of sharp lines, skulls, barbed wire, script I can’t read, and symbols that look more like warnings than decoration. There’s no blank skin, no softness, no place untouched by ink or scar tissue.

And of course, because the universe hates me, he looks good.