Page 66 of Blood & Throttle

Luca elbows me. “We’re happy for you. Even if you act like a grumpy bastard ninety-nine percent of the time.”

I shoot him a look. “Watch it.”

“Seriously,” he says, tone dipping into something real. “You deserve it, Riot. Whatever this is with her? You fucking deserve something good. We all know you’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

I don’t say anything.

Because if I open my mouth right now, I might let something out I can’t take back.

And Luca? He’s earned more than that.

I still remember the first time I saw the little shit. He was bleeding from the nose, knuckles torn up, leaning against the busted wall of some underground garage in the Iron Wastes. Two older racers had jumped him over a part he wouldn’t give up, some chipped nitro rig barely worth the scrap.

He didn’t back down.

I stepped in. Didn’t plan to. But something about the fire in his eyes reminded me of myself—young, pissed off, ready to die swinging. I broke the jaw of the first guy, shattered the other’s kneecap and left them both in the dirt.

Luca just spit blood, looked up at me, and grinned like an idiot. “Thanks, asshole.”

He followed me after that. Wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’tleave. I let him hang around, figured he’d vanish like the rest eventually. But he didn’t.

He proved himself in the pits. Started fixing things I didn’t even know were broken. Covered me in races. Bled beside me in fights. Earned a place no one else had.

My crew? I built it out of ghosts and bastards. But Luca?

He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a little brother.

So instead of saying any of that, I just nod once. Slow.

Let him have that moment.

And for a second—just one—I let myself believe him.

A low whistleslices through the tension in the air as one of the Syndicate handlers steps forward, voice flat and loud. “Let’s move. Riders mount up. Convoy rolls out in five.”

The energy shifts instantly. Crew members start moving toward their vehicles, doors slam shut on the transport, and engines kick to life all around us.

Sin stands, brushing the dirt off her black jeans with a casual flick of her hand. Her crop top rides up just enough to flash a sliver of stomach before the leather jacket settles back into place. She stretches, spine arching, arms over her head like she didn’t just spend the last hour under the weight of every eye in this goddamn lot.

My eyes are already on her when hers find mine.

Of course they are.

She catches me staring and smirks like she owns the fucking place. “You always stare like that, or am I just special?”

I take a long drag from my cigarette, slow and deliberate. “Special isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Ugh, my ass is numb,” she mutters, grabbing her helmetoff the table. “Swear to god, if your bike seat gets any harder, I’m walking to Wraithmoor.”

I flick the last of my smoke to the gravel and smirk. “Could always ride my lap instead. Might be softer.”

She laughs, low and wicked, sliding the helmet on with a smirk. “Softer? Please. Pretty sure I felt just how hard you got with me on your lap last night.”

My head turns, jaw ticking, smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Can’t help it when a half-naked little brat climbs onto my lap and starts grinding like she’s begging for it.”

She climbs on behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. “Last I checked, you were the one who kissed me, Carter.”

I glance over my shoulder, raising a brow. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”