"I want both," Miller stepped into the light, his suit costing more than everything in the garage combined. "The Xtreme Rules circuit doesn't care about precision if you’re trailing smoke at the finish line. No restrictions, Jax. No safety nets. Just the drive."
The air in the garage smelled of burnt rubber and high-octane gasoline—a scent that usually meant home for Jax, but tonight it felt like a warning. He wiped a smudge of grease from his forearm, his eyes fixed on the sleek, midnight-blue silhouette of the modified street racer on the lift. This wasn't just a car; it was a middle finger to the establishment. "You're late," a voice rasped from the shadows. Xtreme Rules by Em Petrova
Miller’s expression didn't flicker. "In this circuit, memories are as dangerous as a blown tire. Stick to the engine, kid. Leave the ghosts to the graveyard." "I want both," Miller stepped into the light,
