Page 306 of Rogue Riders Duet

He steps back like the tape might bite him. “No way.” He holds up both hands and laughs. “Not touching that. If I do it, at least three guys will kill me. Four, probably.”

I blink at him, then glance at Piper. “Piper. Please?”

“Nope. I know what that shit could do to you, so I’m doing you a favor.”

Dane slings an arm over her shoulder. “Go on, darling. Enlighten her.”

Piper sighs like she’s about to recite a well-rehearsed monologue. “Okay. Worst case? You reinjure your fingers so badly that you’ll never use them again. Or your whole hand. Your wrist. Your arm. If you crash, which, by the way, just happened, your bike will fly out from under you, then you could rip the muscles on your entire left side.”

She pauses, letting that horrible image sink in, then looks me dead in the eye. “And if your bike decides to yeet itself down the mountain, it’ll take you with it.”

Dread pools in my stomach, and I swallow hard. My body remembers my recent yeeting down the mountain of Les Gets with screaming nerves and phantom bruises. Fuck.

Piper raises both brows. “So, yeah. Not recommended.”

I close my eyes as everything threatens to overwhelm me.

Breathe, Alaina.

When I open them again, I paste on my best smug smile. “Sounds like I can’t crash, then.”

Luc snorts, but Mason elbows him in the gut. “Stop encouraging her.”

“I’m sorry, Pretty Boy.” Luc just throws an arm around him and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I wasn’t. She’s just so feisty.”

Mason shoves him off. “Stop it.”

“You’re feisty too.” Luc grins wider. “Mon Dieu, you guys make me horny.”

Dane groans. “Didn’t need to hear that.”

Luc claps him on the shoulder. “Désolé,” he says, not sorry at all. Then he turns to me, and I meet his gaze, showing him everything I’ve got. The fight. The desperation. The silent plea that says don’t let this be the end for me.

He reads it, and his teasing grin fades into something much more real. Then he spins back to the group with a shrug, voice dripping with faux innocence.

“Okay, oui, that all sounds very dramatic and medical and horrifying. But let’s be honest, this sport is dangerous as hell no matter what we do. Any of us could break something every time we drop in. So if ma Petite can’t ride without the tape, maybe we let her try it with the tape. It’s DH, and we all follow the twenty/eighty rule.”

Otis squints. “What rule?”

“Twenty percent skill. Eighty percent balls.”

Mason groans as Dane mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but I laugh out loud.

God, I love this idiot.

Footsteps pound up the gravel behind us, and we all turn as Finn barrels into view—no helmet, no bike, not even in his racing kit. Just a pair of shorts, a wrinkled black shirt, and a look on his face that says he’s been chasing time and finally caught it by the throat.

He skids to a stop next to us, chest heaving. “Sorry,” he pants. “Took longer than I thought. The UCI are assholes, but they just approved it last minute.”

Luc whistles low. “You look like you sprinted through hell, mon frère.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking him over. My heart is already thumping, because something in his tone—hopeful, breathless, and aimed at me—has my blood buzzing.

Finn holds out something between his hands. It looks like a modified grip made of rubber with a strange matte finish and a hook extending from one side.

“I was talking with Jim,” he explains, catching his breath. “We worked on a prototype. For you. For your hand.”

My mouth goes dry as I stare at it, at him.