Page 60 of Full Throttle

“Sir. I was just—”

Dominic’s voice was pleasant. “I’m only going to say this once. Take your hands off her.”

Frederick smirked, which, in Dominic’s opinion, indicated a remarkable lack of self-preservation. “Relax, mate. I’m not doing anything.”

Dominic crossed his arms. “The floor’s already a mess, mate.” His smile was pointed. “I wouldn’t want to add to the problem.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, very,” Dominic said. “Blood’s a real pain to get out of the carpet. Requires lots of water and vinegar.”

His voice was mild, but something hot burned in his chest. Anger, he realized with some surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared about anyone apart from Liêm, and that had taken a decade of forced proximity. Unfortunately, it had the effect of making him want to kick Von Galen’s face in, which was—and this was just a guess—probably not something the academy would condone.

He lowered his voice. “Go.”

Frederick’s throat bobbed. He muttered something in German before stalking down the corridor. Dominic exhaled. He made quick work of the cleanup and then scooped up Juliette, who was either still dozing or dead. Hopefully the former.

She yawned. “Hastings?”

Oh, good. Not dead. “Yeah?”

“Stop looking at me like that,” Juliette said, and her voice was surprisingly firm.

Dominic surprised himself by smiling. “You can’t even see my face.”

Juliette sighed. “I can just tell.” She cracked open one eye. “What did you say to Frederick?”

Dominic slowed. He hadn’t realized she’d been conscious enough to appreciate that either of them was there. Better to change the subject. “What happened tonight?”

“Nate challenged me to a drinking game. I won.”

She looked smug, which would have been amusing if Dominic wasn’t battling the sudden, surprising urge to hunt down Nathaniel Jenkins and break both his arms. A terrible thought occurred to him.

“Did he touch you?”

Juliette’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Nate,” Dominic said. “Before I got there. Did he?”

Juliette looked at Dominic as if he’d suggested they race with marshmallows instead of tires. “No. It’s not like that anymore.”

Anymore. So the rumors were true. Dominic’s jaw tightened, and he might have said more if they weren’t approaching her bedroom door. “We’re here.”

Juliette fumbled with a key. Dominic scanned the room. A half-eaten sleeve of biscuits rested on the desk, and cowboy boots peeked out from under the bed. Posters plastered the walls: cocktails, a sketch of Brighton pier, former female drivers…

Dominic nodded at the wall. “Nice poster.”

She set down the key. “It’s—”

“Maria Teresa de Filippis. I know who she is.”

He knew the photograph: Maria leaned against a vintage car, staring boldly out at the camera. It was no surprise that Juliette liked her; Maria had gone into racing because her older brother had bet that she couldn’t outdrive him. Something warm curled in his chest. A lot like someone else he knew, actually.

Dominic’s eyes flicked to the other posters: Lella Lombardi, an Italian woman who had driven the delivery van for her family’s butcher shop before getting into racing; Ranya Silva, the Sri Lankan driver who ran Toro Significa. And that was it, he realized, because that was all the women in the sport’s history. How depressing. He’d had a dozen posters of famous male racers on his walls growing up. Mostly white, admittedly, but at least he’d been able to see glimpses of himself in them. We’re outsiders, he’d told her. How true that was.

He sat down on the bed.

“I need a shower,” Juliette said.