Page 68 of Blood & Throttle

Please.

It takesexactlytwenty-three minutes for me to get bored.

Taz’s passed out on the pillow, dead to the world. Riot still hasn’t come back. And the buzz in my blood from the ride—the heat he left in my skin, the tension in my chest—it’s all still simmering.

I’m not some fragile thing waiting around for a man to give me orders. I don’t care how hot he is or how good his hands feel around my throat.

So I grab my jacket, kiss Taz on the nose, and walk straight out the door without a second thought.

Fog curlsthick across the yard like it knows I’m not supposed to be here. The wind claws through busted scaffolding and rattles old chains above like the whole damn place is scolding me.

I walk faster.

Because yeah, Riot’s gonna be pissed.

But pissed Riot isfun.

Dangerous. Loud. Unhinged.

And lately? I think I like the way he snaps when it’s over me.

I wander until the world feels quiet enough, until the sharp edge in my chest dulls a little. That’s when I spot him—Ghost—perched like a statue on top of a rusted container.

“You always lurk like this,” I call out, “or is tonight special?”

He looks down slowly. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“And you’re not supposed to be giving main character energy on a shipping crate, but here we are.”

He actually cracks a smile. First one I’ve ever seen on him that doesn’t look like it hurts.

“Touché.”

I climb up beside him, the metal creaking under my boots. We sit in silence for a second. The good kind. Like neither of us is trying too hard.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he finally asks.

“Be honest,” I say. “If you had to share a room with a guy who looked like he wanted to either kill you or bend you over every five minutes… wouldyousleep?”

Ghost snorts, just barely. “Depends. Is he hotter than me?”

I blink. Then laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

I swing my legs over the edge of the container, letting them dangle. Ghost sits a few feet away, hunched slightly forward, hoodie drawn over his messy black hair. His boots are unlaced. Fingernails bitten down. There’s always this slight shake in his fingers—not fear, but energy. Like his brain moves faster than his body can keep up.

Face still a little too young to look as tired as he does. There’s a faint scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, and his skin’s pale under the moonlight—haunted, but not hollow.

He’s the quietest person in the crew. Deadliest with a keyboard. And probably the only one who could hack a Syndicate satelliteandhotwire a bike with a hairpin if you gave him five minutes and a Monster energy drink.

But tonight, he’s not typing or hiding. Just sitting. Staring. Thinking. Silence stretches between us for a second. Not tense. Just… full.

Then I say, “So what’s your deal, Ghost? Something tells me you weren’t always this emo.”

He sighs dramatically. “God. Emo? Really?”

I bump him again. “Well? Spill.”