Blood & Throttle

Prologue

Riot

Noxhaven, USA

Black Honey - Thrice

The scent of burnt rubber, gasoline, and blood clings to the night air, thick enough to choke on. The crowd is restless, high on violence and the promise of carnage, their cheers blending with the growl of idling engines.

I stand at the edge of the pit, cigarette burning low between my fingers, watching as another racer bleeds out on the track.

The qualifying race hasn’t even started yet. Doesn’t fucking matter.

The Gauntlet never sleeps—and by the time this night is over, half the riders here won’t wake up again.

The gunshot still cracks through the air, sharp and final, sending a splatter of red across the pavement.

The man staggers, gripping his stomach where the bullet tore through him, a useless attempt to hold himself together. His bike is wrecked a few feet away, engine still hissing, the last breath of a machine that won’t ride again.

He sways once, then crumples.

Too slow. Too weak. And now, he’s nothing but a fresh stain on the asphalt.

The racer who shot him—his opponent, his executioner, his fucking reaper—lowers his gun, tucking it back into his belt like it’s just another piece of gear.

No one reacts.

No one stops him.

Two pit rats—kids too young to race, but old enough to understand the rules—step onto the track and start dragging the body toward the scrapyard. Boots scrape against oil-slick asphalt, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind.

No one calls for cleanup. No one asks questions.

Because in The Gauntlet, you're fair game.

On or off the track.

The pit is alive with the sound of men preparing for war.

Engines snarl as racers test their bikes, revving their machines, fine-tuning every inch of their deadly rides. Wrenches clank against metal, sparks flying as mechanics tweak armor plating, reinforce axles, and modify weapons hidden in the fairings.

No one in the crowd is sitting still. The stands are packed with Syndicate elites, high-rollers, and bloodthirsty gamblers, all buzzing with restless energy. Neon strobes cut through the smog, illuminating the pit in brief flashes, casting long shadows against the rusted walls.

Cameras hover overhead, drones whirring as they capture every moment, broadcasting the race live to the world. The Gauntlet isn’t just a sport—it’s a fucking spectacle.

A high-stakes bloodbath disguised as entertainment.

Pit crews move like a well-oiled machines, sharpening blades, loading guns, rigging death traps onto bikes. It’s not just a race. It’s a fucking massacre in the making.

I take a slow drag of my cigarette, the taste of smoke mixing with gasoline and sweat. I’ve seen a hundred men die on this track. I’ve killed half of them myself. No one survives The Gauntlet without getting blood on their hands.

The next race is announced. Names. Odds. Wagers exchanged in dark corners.

I don’t give a shit.

Not until I hear the whispers.

They’re throwing a woman into the next race.

I exhale smoke through my nose, my head tilting slightly toward the men talking a few feet away.

“Poor bitch doesn’t even know she’s already dead,” one of them snickers, tossing a crumpled wad of cash into the betting pool.

“Ah shit. I bet she’ll be roadkill before the first lap.”

A third voice laughs, low and cruel. “Nah, knowing Jace, he’ll get to her first. Probably fuck her against her own bike before she crashes.”

That gets a round of laughter, sick and knowing. I don’t flinch. This world isn’t kind. It never has been.

Women don’t last in The Gauntlet.

They’re either claimed, destroyed, or forgotten.

This circuit wasn’t built for them, and the ones dumb enough to think they can compete? They end up as nothing more than bloodstains on the asphalt.

If they’re lucky.

If they’re not, they don’t die quick—they get used first. Rough. Forced. Right there on the track or dragged off into the dark, broken before they even hit the asphalt.

I don’t bother stepping in. It’s not my fucking problem. The Gauntlet eats the weak.

That’s the only rule.

But when I turn toward the pit, I see her.

She’s standing just outside the garage bays, eyes sweeping the crowd like she’s already memorizing her executioners.

By the looks of her, the world has already tried to break her a few times.

But it hasn’t.

And for some stupid fucking reason, that stops me cold.

She’s small. Too fucking small to survive what’s coming for her. The men around her see it immediately. They close in, predatory grins flashing under the dim floodlights. She should back up. Should shrink away from the threat surrounding her.

She doesn’t.

No, instead, she holds her ground like she belongs here.

The silence stretches, thick with the weight of what’s about to happen.

The pit is loud, filthy, and charged with tension.

The kind of place where men bet with blood and settle debts with broken bones.

I lean against my bike, arms crossed, watching the new arrival.

Her long, dark hair spills past her ass in thick waves, wild and untamed, like it refuses to be controlled—no doubt just like the rest of her. Though all I see is a liability. An easy target. Something someone’s going to wrap around their fist and use to snap her neck in a place like this.

I don’t like it.

She’s not prey, though, she fucking should be.

But something in me tells me she’s not.

More of the other racers have noticed her, too, but they don’t rush her. They don’t have to. They circle like predators, leering, tossing vulgar comments back and forth like she’s not even standing there.

“Well, well, fresh fucking meat, boys!”

“Bet she won’t last five minutes. Wonder if she’ll scream first.”

“Heard she’s got a mouth on her—I could find a better use for it before she dies.”

Laughter ripples through the group. Someone whistles low. I stay silent, watching, waiting to see how she reacts. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even cower. She just stares at them, unreadable, unshaken, like she’s deciding who she’s going to kill first.

Interesting.

Bitch has more balls than half the fuckers in this pit.

I exhale slow, flicking my cigarette to the ground before pushing off my bike.

“Who the fuck is she?”

The conversation dies instantly.

When I speak, people fucking listen.

A guy to my left—Marcus, one of the pit runners, a rat-faced bastard who hears everything before it spreads—clears his throat. “Sienna Vega. Heard she’s a dead girl walkin’,” he says. “Word is Kane’s people had the Syndicate throw her in as punishment for killing his son.”

That tracks. This place takes volunteers, but not many. You can enter The Gauntlet willingly, if you're desperate enough or just fucking insane. But it’s almost never women who do, because everyone knows it’s a death sentence.

“She do it?” I ask.

Marcus shrugs. “Don’t matter. The bet’s already made. House wants her dead.”

The crowd mutters in agreement, watching me carefully.

They expect me to fall in line.

To treat her like just another body already waiting to be dragged off the track.

But I don’t.

Falling in line? Doing what I’m told? Yeah, that’s never been my fucking style. Not then. Not now.

Instead, I look at her again. Really look.

Bruises lace her ribs, peeking out from the torn neckline of her tank top. Blood smears the corner of her mouth, dried where some bastard tried—and fucking failed—to shut her up.

But her eyes?

Burning.

Sharp.

Refusing to fucking kneel.

A muscle in my jaw twitches and Jace notices. Cocky bastard that he is, he steps forward, smirking, always looking for a fight.

“Pretty lil’ thang ain’t she. No matter, we all know she won’t even make it through the first lap," he drawls. "Might as well put her to good use before her flesh gets ground into the asphalt beneath my wheels." More laughter and a few murmurs of agreement.

My body moves before I even register the decision.

One second, Jace is smirking, the next, my hand is around his throat, slamming him back against the nearest stack of tires. A collective gasp ripples through the pit. Jace chokes, hands flying to his neck as I tighten my grip, cutting off whatever smart-ass response he was about to spit out.

The crowd knows better than to step in.

I step in close, slowly and deliberately, letting the tension stretch.

My grip tightens around Jace’s throat, feeling the way his pulse kicks against my palm. His hands claw at my wrist, but he’s not getting free. My voice drops lower, lethal.

"You got something to say about her, Jace?" I tilt my head, watching him like prey. "Go on. Say it. Give me a fucking reason to put you in the ground."

His hands flex against my wrist, testing for weakness. There isn’t any.

"Fuck—" he tries to grit out, but he can’t fully get the words out.

I press harder.

"You touch her," I murmur, tightening my grip, "you even look at her the wrong way again, and those pit rats will be scraping your corpse off the track till sunrise."

His face darkens, fury flashing behind his bloodshot eyes. But he knows. I’ve got a body count that makes men hesitate. Jace isn't stupid.

I release him with a shove, and he stumbles, coughing, and rubbing at his throat like he wants to say something.

But he doesn’t.

Fucking pussy.

Instead, he spits at my feet and stalks off. I don’t even watch him go. My eyes are locked on her. The girl I just fucking claimed in front of every piece of shit in this pit.

She’s staring at me now, arms crossed, defiant as ever. Bitch should be thanking me. She has no idea what the hell I just saved her ass from. But instead, she just lifts her chin, locking her dark unreadable eyes with mine, then turns and walks away.

No reaction. No fucking hesitation.

Just pure, silent defiance.

Her stride is steady, shoulders squared, like she didn’t just have every man in this pit marking her for death. Like she isn’t walking straight into a grave she doesn’t see coming.

I watch her go, something sharp and unwanted curling in my chest.

She doesn’t fucking belong here.

She’s not built for this world, not hardened by it, not yet, and yet she walks like she is, like she belongs. Every man in this pit is debating whether to kill her, claim her, or use her until there’s nothing left, and this bitch doesn’t give a fuck about any of it.

She’s a stray.

Alone, untouched and unbroken.

A wild thing that hasn’t been caught yet, but that won’t last long.

I roll the thought around in my head, letting it settle.

Little Stray.

Yeah. It fucking suits her.

Because without me?

She won’t last the night.

And for some reason, that pisses me the fuck off.