Page 9 of Blood & Throttle

He’s close. Too fucking close.

The scent of oil, leather, and something dark and masculine clings to him.

He smells like danger, like gasoline right before a spark. A killer behind handlebars. A legend in racing leathers. And he’s looking at me like he already owns me.

His voice is low, gravel-rough, laced with quiet dominance. "Get on the fucking bike, Little Stray. Or I’ll put you down before the race even starts."

Two

Riot

Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz

Some people begwhen they know they’re about to die.

Some cry. Others fucking piss themselves. Shit, most at least try to fight even when they know they don’t stand a fucking chance, swinging wildly and desperately, clawing at a coffin that’s already nailed shut.

And then there are the rare ones.

The ones who stare death in the face and fucking smile.

I press the blade harder under her chin, just enough to warn, not enough to break the skin.Yet.

Sienna Vega doesn’t flinch.

She doesn’t beg. Doesn’t so much as fucking blink.

Instead, she smirks.

Cocky, reckless, and fucking stupid.

The kind of stupid that gets people killed fast.

And now that I’m up close, I can see her. Really see her.

She’s smaller than I expected, built for speed—lean muscle,long legs, curves hidden beneath layers of attitude and road-worn leather. Little things stand out now that she’s closer.

Small, faint freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, almost unnoticeable beneath the grime. A tiny scar near her temple, another at the corner of her mouth, like she learned early on that nothing in this world is given without a fight.

Her long, dark hair spills past her ass in thick waves, wild and untamed, like it refuses to be controlled—just like the rest of her. It’s a fucking liability on the track, an easy target, something that should’ve been ripped off or tied back if she had half a brain.

Maybe she’s too stupid to know better. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a fuck. Her jacket is beat to shit, black with scuffed sleeves and torn seams, stitched together like she refuses to let it die. The kind of thing that’s been through hell with her. The zipper’s half-broken, caught just below her collarbone, exposing a sliver of skin—a delicate fucking tease against the brutality of the world she’s standing in.

Underneath, she’s wearing a threadbare tank top, washed-out black, stretched over sharp ribs and freshly bruised skin. And judging by the way Kane’s dog was rolling up his cuffs earlier, I’d bet he’s the bastard who put them there.

The thought settles like a slow-burning fuse in my gut, but I don’t react. Not now. Not here.

Dark jeans, ripped at the knees, and frayed edges. Not for style but for survival. The kind of wear that comes from eating pavement, crawling out of wreckage, throwing punches that hit harder than they should. Scuffed combat boots, laces loose like she doesn’t give a fuck if they fall apart beneath her.

And her face?

A goddamn contradiction.

Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut, lips full enough to be distracting if they weren’t split at the corner, swelling from a fight she clearly didn’t lose. But it’s the eyes that get me.

Dark. Deep. Reckless.

The kind of eyes that have seen too much, lived through worse, and aren’t afraid of whatever comes next. The kind of eyes that should’ve been broken by now.