Emily took my hand and gave it a brief squeeze before walking away with a sway in her hips that made my fists clench.
Fox stepped up beside me, voice low. “You good?”
“Not even close.”
“That’s love.”
I stared at Emily disappearing into the locker room. “No. That’s obsession.”
Fox snorted. “Can’t argue with that.”
13
RACER
Every corner of the garage hummed with tension and quiet purpose. We were gathered in Kane’s office the night before the Helline Circuit. Reaper leaned against the windowsill with his arms crossed, that wild glint in his eye that usually meant something was about to burn. Midnight sat in the corner, half shadowed, tapping something into his phone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was compiling a kill list. Kane paced behind his desk like a caged panther. Fox, Maverick, and Nitro took up the couch and chairs, all of them looking as though they were ready for war.
We were seven predators circling one shared kill.
Kane stopped walking and braced his fingers on the edge of his desk, dark eyes steady. “Everything’s set. Franklin thinks your Charger’s rigged to blow. He hasn’t laid down a single bet on you.” His voice was low and deliberate. “Which means he’s going to lose everything when you cross that finish line.”
Maverick snorted. “Dumb fuck. We’re gonna bury his career in a shallow grave.”
“Already got the shovel,” Reaper murmured, tossing a spanner from hand to hand like it was a weapon.
“Think he’ll piss himself when the odds flip?” Nitro smirked.
“I’m hoping he cries.” Edge grinned. “Easier to slit a man’s throat when he’s already choking on it.”
Maverick raised a brow. “Damn, you feeling sentimental tonight?”
Kane leaned back against the wall, arms folded. “He’s feeling murderous. We all are.”
I clenched my jaw, already picturing Franklin’s face when he realized he’d been outplayed. The smug, greasy bastard thought he had it all sewn up. That my Charger would blow sky-high, taking me and his problem with it. He didn’t know he was the one sitting on a powder keg.
“All our team owners are in?” I asked.
Kane nodded. “Every single one. They’re throwing the race on command. Their drivers know the plan and signals. They’ll box you in, block the crash plays, and make damn sure you cross that finish line. Your only job is to stay alive and win.”
Fox leaned back, calm and collected in a way that meant he was at his deadliest. “Bets’ll go down at the last possible second—big, loud, and all on you.”
I cracked my neck and let my gaze slide over all of them. “So Franklin gets nothing. His boys lose. His odds go up in flames, and his backers get burned with him.”
“That’s the goal.” Nitro’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “And if it all goes to shit, we improvise.”
We discussed things for a few more minutes, then the meeting concluded.
“Hey,” Fox called, nodding me into the hallway. “Got something for you.”
We walked a few feet away before he handed over a plastic-wrapped bundle and clapped me on the back. “Thought you might need this.”
I peeled the wrap away, and my chest squeezed.
Emily’s property vest.
Black leather, soft and supple, sized for her frame. Her name was stitched on the front left breast in silver thread, clean and feminine. But it was the back that hit hardest—the Iron Rogues patch, bold as hell and Property of Racer stitched in bone-white thread across the center.
Fuck.
