Page 34 of Blood & Throttle

Really fucking good.

Annoyingly good.

I drag my eyes away, pissed off at myself, but before I can get a word out, another figure steps up beside him. Some guy, taller than most, wearing a leather vest over bare arms, inked just like Riot but with none of the same weight. His stance is easy, like he belongs, but the second he looks over Riot’s shoulder—at me—his expression shifts.

I go rigid, suddenly realizing I’m sitting there in nothing but my bra, the lower half of my body still covered by Taz and the thin blanket draped over Riot’s bed.

His gaze lingers too long, and Riot notices.

The slap comes fast, sharp, the back of Riot’s hand cracking against the guy’s jaw with enough force to send him staggering. He doesn’t say shit, just straightens, rubbing at his face while Riot exhales slowly, flicking his cigarette to the floor.

“Try that shit again,” Riot mutters, voice low, and dark, "and I’ll rip your fucking eyes out and hang ‘em off my handlebars."

The guy doesn’t argue, just nods stiffly, backing off, and disappearing down the hall.

Riot turns back to me like nothing happened. “Get dressed. We have shit to do.”

I arch a brow, arms crossed. “You know, you got a real bad habit of thinking you get to tell me what to do.”

Riot takes a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose as his dark gaze pins me in place. Then, in that same cold, calculated tone, he murmurs, “That’s because I do.”

I huff a laugh, dry and sharp. “Cocky bastard.”

His head tilts, dark eyes gleaming. “Get dressed, Sin.” His voice dips, low and steady, dangerous in a way that makes something twist in my gut. “Don’t fucking make me say it again.”

A flicker of irritation spikes through me. Not just at his tone, but at the fact that, without thinking, I move.

I don’t like it. I don’t like that he expects me to listen, or that some part of me already knows he won’t let me say no. But I shove the sheets back, standing too fast, and pain rips through my side.

The wince is small, quick. But not quick enough. I try to smother it, to keep my face blank, but Riot catches it. Of course he does. His sharp gaze sweeps over me, honing in on the way I move—too stiff, too controlled, like every breath is a battle I refuse to lose. Like my ribs aren’t screaming with every fucking shift.

"Where?"

I blink. "Where what?"

He flicks the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot as he closes the space between us. His eyes flick over me, assessing, scanning for whatever the fuck he’s looking for.

I hold my ground, tilting my chin. "What, you playing doctor now?"

He doesn’t answer, just reaches out, fingers brushing my side—too light, too careful. The moment they graze aparticularly sore spot, I tense. His jaw flexes, his whole demeanor shifting in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

“Who?”

The word is quiet, flat. But somehow harder than if he’d shouted it.

I hate the way my pulse skips. Hate the way his voice sinks into my bones like a warning. Like a goddamn promise.

I force my expression into something unreadable and pull back just enough to break contact. I shrug. “Kane’s men. They weren’t exactly gentle when they dragged me here.”

His eyes flicker and I see it—the rage, the calculation. The fucking storm brewing in his head.

Then he turns and grabs something off the nearby crate. A bottle of whiskey, a clean rag, and a roll of bandages.

I scoff. “What, you gonna pour me a drink?”

His smirk is humorless. “I’m gonna clean your wounds before they get infected.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”