Page 79 of Blood & Throttle

The bite mark.

“Oh, this?” I smirk. “Yeah, real subtle. I’m sure no one noticed the part where you tried to eat me alive.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile but he doesn’t. Not all the way.

Instead, he crosses the space between us and grabs my chin—firm but slow—turning my face up to his.

The noise fades for a second. Just him. Just me.

His thumb drags across my bottom lip, rough leather brushing soft skin.

“Hold on,” he says, voice low enough to burn. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

I stare back at him.

Not smirking. Not joking.

Because something in his voice cuts deeper than the rest.

He’s scared.

Not of the race, but of losing me.

I nod once.

“I won’t,” I say. “But don’t get us killed, either.”

He releases my face like a promise and moves back to the bike.

We mount up in silence, our movements synced, practiced, and ready. I slide my helmet on, and the HUD flares to life with a faint electric hum—brighter, faster, upgraded. Riot’s newest mod.

A split-screen interface sweeps across the visor, marking targets in real time and tracking terrain shifts within a hundred-meter radius. It syncs to Riot’s bike, feeds me his vitals, route projections, ammo counts, and engine heat levels like a lifeline wired straight to his pulse. A new feature—a heartbeat tracker—flickers in the corner, locked on his signature. Green. Steady. Fierce.

He’s already lowering his visor beside me, gloves tightening around the throttle.

We don’t need to speak.

The hunt’s already begun.

Overhead, the Syndicate announcer crackles through the speakers, his voice smooth, cruel, and soaked in adrenaline.

“Districts, this is your final call… place your bets. The Graveyard is open.”

The crowd behind the barricades roars like animals.

“Welcome to Wraithmoor, where the roads collapse and so do the bodies. No rules. No resets, and no breaks. Just wreckage.”

The launch lights flash from red to yellow.

“Every camera’s live. Every racer’s expendable. And The Concrete Graveyard… is hungry.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

Riot leans forward just slightly, and I follow, chest to his back, locked in.

“Let’s give ‘em a show.”

Green.