Page 43 of Blood & Throttle

I meet her gaze, unwavering. “Every last one.”

She doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch.

And fuck if that doesn’t do something tome.

I smirk, leaning forward again, resting my elbows on my knees. “That’s how I got here. When you piss off the right people, they don’t just let you walk away. And The Gauntlet?” My smirk widens, sharp, dark. “It’s a convenient way to make sure a problem takes care of itself.”

Sin’s quiet again for a long moment.

Then she shifts, absently running her fingers through Taz’s fur. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Damn right, I am.

I exhale sharply, gaze locking on the door. “Get some sleep, Sin.”

She watches me for another few seconds, like she’s debating pushing for more. Then, finally, she sighs, rolling onto her side.

I stay in the chair, arms crossed, watching the door.

Because tomorrow?

Tomorrow, I’ll be killing again.

And this time?

I might actually fucking enjoy it.

Nine

Sienna

Welcome To Hell - Bad Meets Evil

The Bone Yardis a goddamn war zone.

A maze of rusted shipping containers, collapsed factories, and landmines buried beneath the asphalt. Smoke from a dozen burning wrecks curls into the night air, thick and choking, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. It reeks of oil, blood, and bad fucking decisions.

And I’m about to race straight into it.

I adjust the gloves Riot gave me, the leather stiff and worn, scuffed from past races, past kills. My own gear is a mix of borrowed and salvaged—jean shorts I grabbed from the donation bin, a black tank, and one of Riot’s jackets, heavy on my shoulders, smelling like smoke and something darkly familiar. My helmet dangles from my fingers, the weight of it settling over me like a goddamn warning.

The Gauntlet isn’t just a race. It’s a spectacle.

The stands surrounding the track are packed, bodies pressed together in the seething, screaming masses. Syndicateelites lounge in the VIP boxes above, sipping their overpriced liquor, placing their bets, eager for blood. The rest of the degenerates—gang members, criminals, gamblers, and desperate fucks looking for a thrill—pack the lower levels, shouting for carnage, fists pumping the air.

Overhead, sleek black drones hover, their red recording lights blinking as they stream the event live across the world. Billions are watching.

Waiting.

The racers are lined up, each with their own machine, their own brand of violence.

To my left, a guy with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw grips his handlebars like he’s already imagining wrapping them around someone’s throat. To my right, another racer cracks his knuckles one by one, his engine revving in slow, steady pulses, like a heartbeat waiting to stop.

And then there’s Riot.

He stands beside his bike, casual as ever, smoking a cigarette like this is just another night, another race, another body count waiting to happen. But I know better.

His arms flex beneath the ink-covered skin, every inch of him a walking fucking threat. His tattoos are a map of violence—black and bold, covering every inch of him. His hands, his throat, his chest, his stomach, his back.