Page 93 of Blood & Throttle

Message received motherfucker, and now we’re sending one back.

Carved in bone and soaked in blood.

He thinks this ends with fear?

He forgot who the fuck he’s dealing with.

I slide a fresh mag into my SIG XFive, the solid click echoing through the room like a warning.

I hold it in my hand for a second, feeling the weight of it settle, steady and cold.

Tungsten-infused alloy frame—heavier than polymer, meant to soak recoil without flinching.

Custom slide cuts for speed. Suppressor-ready barrel.

Trijicon RMR sight locked in low for fast, lethal targeting.

Smooth. Fast. Built for war.

The kind of weapon you draw when you're ready to end something.

A killer’s gun.

I holster it low on my right hip, cross-draw ready. Close-quarters isn’t about volume, it’s about speed and precision. One shot, clean. No time for second chances.

Across the room, Sin’s tugging on her jacket, jaw tight, eyes flashing with something sharp enough to cut steel. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to.

She’s watching me like I’m about to explode, and she’s not wrong.

I catch her checking the gauge on her holster and stepping into her boots. She looks at me like she dares me to say she’s not ready.

But I don’t.

Because she is tougher than I give her credit for, and I fucking know it.

She survived without me, scraped and clawed her way through hell when no one else gave a shit.

But now?

Now she’s mine to protect.

And I swear to whatever's left out there I’ll rip this wholefucking world apart with my bare hands before I let anyone lay a finger on her.

I’ll die before I let her hurt again.

And I’ll take a thousand motherfuckers with me on the way down.

I strap my gear tight and cross the room. I stop in front of her, close enough to see the little bruise still blooming beneath her jaw from where I marked her last night.

I don’t speak until she finally looks up.

“Listen to me,” I say, voice low and hard. “You move when I move. No hesitation. No going rogue. You stay on me, Little Stray, every second. If shit goes sideways, you run. You dip. No risk-taking. No stupid fucking heroics. Revenge isn’t worth your life.”

Her chin lifts. “You always this romantic before murder?”

I glare.

She grins.