Page 107 of Stricken

His smile widens, a predator sensing weakness. "Always, Vlad. Always." Then he jumps off the pedestal and takes a few steps in my direction. Arm thrown casually across my shoulder, he leads me out and I play his little game.

"Let's see what you're riding today, my friend," he whispers in my ear as we stride back to my car, side by side as if old buddies. I actually don't mind this display of friendship. It serves my purpose.

Jun's voice drops to a murmur only I can hear. "So, Vlad, how are you really doing? Word on the street is you've snagged yourself quite the Italian prize."

My blood runs cold. Even the Enclave knows Nico and I are a thing. I keep my face impassive.

Jun chuckles, a low sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Or should I say, Italian stallion? That's what they're calling him around here."

Fury ignites in my chest, white-hot and consuming. Before I can stop myself, I hiss, "Watch what you're saying."

Jun's eyes widen in mock innocence as he steps back and looks at me, hands raised. "Hey now, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just repeating what I hear."

I force myself to take a deep breath, unclenching my fists. "Just... get me set up for the race."

"Of course," Jun purrs, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Wouldn't want to keep you from your... escape."

I turn away, desperate to put distance between us. He's dangerous. He looks young and innocent, like a fashion model trying to pull off bad boy vibes, but everyone knows he's older than me. Almost pushing forty.

The world blurs as I make my way to the changing area. There, as I peel off my shirt and pants, Nico's face flashes before me again. I shove the image away, focusing on the race ahead.

Ivan materializes at my side as I approach the car later on. Our eyes meet briefly, volumes passing between us. As I step toward the driver's side, he retreats, giving me the space I need.

My hand trembles slightly as I grasp the door handle. The cool metal grounds me, but my thoughts churn like a tempest-tossed sea. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, a heady cocktail of fear and anticipation. For a moment, I'm paralyzed by indecision.

But it passes quickly.

And then I'm behind the wheel, all suited up, ready to risk it all.

The starter's flag drops. Engines erupt. I slam the gas, my body pressed back into the seat.

Tires screech. Metal groans. My heart thunders.

The track unfurls before me like an asphalt ribbon slicing through the night. I weave through the pack, each move planned, desperate.

A memory emerges—Mom's laugh, bright and clear.

I grit my teeth, taking a turn too sharp. The car fishtails.

"Fuck!" I snarl, wrestling for control.

Another memory—Mom's casket, lowering into the ground.

My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. The speedometer climbs.

Hundred and twenty. Hundred and thirty. Hundred and forty.

Sasha's terrified face when Logan and I found him after Toro's men took him on the order of Shtyk.

Hundred and fifty. Hundred and sixty.

Nico's eyes, filled with hurt and betrayal.

"Fuck!" I growl, shaking my head violently.

The wind howls outside, beating against the Mustang's body. Exhaust fumes seep through the vents, acrid and choking. My heart pounds a frantic bruise against my ribs.

I take another turn, tires squealing in protest. The car in front of me wavers.

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