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.
Jax finally looked up, his grip tightening on the wrench. Under Xtreme Rules, the only law was momentum. There were no flags, no pit stops, and definitely no mercy. He had spent his life building machines to survive the impossible, but this race was different. This time, the stakes weren't just a trophy or a purse—they were personal. Xtreme Rules by Em Petrova
Jax didn't need to look up to know it was Miller. "Precision takes time, Miller. You want it fast, or you want to win?" The air in the garage smelled of burnt
"The rules say anything goes," Jax said, his voice dropping an octave. "Does that include what happened to my brother?" "You're late," a voice rasped from the shadows