Page 53 of Blood & Throttle

“And that don’t make her bulletproof, Riot. It makes her the top target on every piece of shit in this place’s hitlist.”

We stare each other down, the hum of tools and machines surrounding us, but nothing drowns out the weight of what he’s saying.

“She’s tougher than most of the assholes here,” I say.

Bishop sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, but she ain’t invincible. Neither are you. You’re letting your feelings show and in The Gauntlet? That’s like bleeding into shark-infested waters.”

I don’t respond.

Because he’s not wrong.

“Let’s just finish the bike,” I say finally, turning back toward it. “We leave in the morning for Wraithmoor.”

“Concrete Graveyard,” Bishop mutters, eyeing the bike. “You ready for that shit?”

“Don’t have a choice.”

We both look over the mods. Sin added a reinforced undercarriage brace, knowing the terrain will be more fractured—sinkholes, cracked asphalt, and sharp elevation drops. Bishop’s got EMP flares wired beneath the frame now, a defense against sensor-triggered traps. With Ghost’s help, I installed retractable tire spikes, just in case we need to climb something or someone.

The tension doesn’t let up.

Not when I see the way Sin moves through the garage like she owns the damn place. Not when I catch the half-smile that curves her lips when she knows I’m watching, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away. Just lets it hang there, smug as hell.

Something sharp and feral twists in my chest.

She’s mine.

Whether they want to accept it or not? Doesn’t matter.

It’s how it is.

And that’s enough to get blood spilled if anyone so much as breathes wrong in her direction.

The air outsidehits cooler than the garage, but it doesn’t put out the heat crawling under my skin. Not after that shit.

I light up, smoke curling around my fingers, the ember flaring orange in the low light spilling from the bay. My jaw’s tight and my fists still haven’t unclenched. I’m not even sure I’m breathing right.

I hate it—this feeling. Uncontrolled. Violent. Too fucking close to something I can’t name.

Footsteps. Light.

I don’t have to look to know it’s her.

Taz trots out first, always a step ahead, tail sweeping low as she gives me a look like she knows I need to cool the fuck down. Then Sin appears, stepping out of the shadows like she was made for them, arms folded, chin tilted, mouth curved in that cocky little smirk that always spells trouble.

“You know,” she says, voice light, teasing, “you really need to work on your people skills. Ever consider a hobby that doesn’t involve breaking faces?”

I don’t answer, just take a drag off the cigarette.

She strolls closer, shoulder brushing the wall beside mine as she leans back like we’re just two friends shooting the shit, not standing on the edge of a warzone. Her head tilts up, eyes scanning the dark sky like she’s waiting for it to crack open and drop something better.

“Relax,” she says after a beat, still playing it cool. “He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even get the chance.”

My jaw ticks. “Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to.”

Her eyes flick toward me, narrowing. “And what? You think I couldn’t handle a little slimeball with grabby hands? Please. I’ve handled worse.”

She tries to keep the tone light, but something in her voice tightens. The bravado flickers, and then it's gone, like a match burning out.