Page 1 of Sexting the Bikers
1
KATYA
The car jerks to a stop in front of a hulking Victorian monstrosity, all turrets and peeling white paint. I stare up at it, feeling absolutely nothing. No awe. No wonder. Just a deep, profound sense of irritation.
This is it? This is what all the fuss was about?
I open the door and step out onto the cracked driveway, the stale, humid air of wherever-the-hell-we-are clinging to my skin. America. Land of the free, home of the tasteless.
Behind me, Alexy climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. He’s trying to act calm, composed. As if we belong here. As if we don’t both know this place is a gilded cage waiting to snap shut.
I turn toward him, arching a brow. “This is the house?”
He tugs his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders, glancing up at the towering thing like it personally offended him. “It’s an American house, Katya,” he says with a shrug. “What did you expect?”
I curl my lip. “Something with taste. Maybe walls that aren’t rotting at the edges.”
Alexy snorts under his breath and steps forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “It’s tasteless and classless. Fits the people who built it.”
I follow, the heels of my boots clicking sharply, defiantly, against the driveway. Every step feels heavier here. More dangerous.
Back home, I knew the rules. I knew who to charm, who to deceive, who to gut if it came to that.
But here? This country smells different. Tastes different. Bleeds different. And if I’m not careful, it’ll devour me whole.
The heavy front door looms closer with every step, its dark wood cracked and weathered like everything else around here. A fitting welcome, really. Peeling paint. Empty windows. A house pretending to be grand while rotting from the inside out.
Just like the people waiting for me inside.
A strange, ugly feeling churns low in my stomach. Not fear. No, I don’t do fear. It’s something meaner curling inside me. Like I’m being led to slaughter with a crown shoved on my head.
“Bring my suitcase, Alexy,” I say, my voice sweet enough to rot teeth.
He gives me a look. One of those tight-lipped, barely-holding-it-together looks that reminds me we’re cousins first, allies second, and only when it suits him.
“I’m not your valet,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away.
I plant my hand on my hip and lift my chin, the perfect picture of bratty defiance. “If I’m to marry our worst rival,” I say lightly, “the least you can do is carry my luggage. Be careful,” I add. “My wedding dress is in there.”
For a moment, I think he might leave it just to spite me. He’s never liked this arrangement—me, shipped off like a bargaining chip—but we both know better than to say it out loud.
With a grunt of reluctant acceptance, Alexy bends and hefts the battered suitcase out of the trunk. His movements are jerky, annoyed, as if the very idea of touching my things offends him.
Good. Let it offend him.
If I’m walking into hell wrapped in white silk and empty promises, the least he can do is carry the damn baggage.
I trail a step behind him, the cracked path leading us closer to the massive double doors. The house looms overhead, casting a long shadow across the gravel.
Somewhere deep in my chest, something tightens—a cold knot twisting harder with every step. But I don’t let it show.
I smile, because that’s what they expect from Katya Riazanova—the spoiled, thoughtless girl with ice in her veins and silk on her skin.
And if I’m going to survive this, it’s exactly what they’ll keep seeing.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Alexy shifts the suitcase higher in his arms as he trudges ahead of me. Over his shoulder, he mutters, “Yeah, I know. The aunts spent hours sewing every damn bead.”
