Page 2 of Sexting the Bikers
I smirk, even though my stomach twists. The aunts bled their fingers dry stitching that dress, pouring what little pride we had left into silk and pearls. A dress meant to dazzle. To distract.
It won’t.
Ahead, the front doors loom taller, heavier. No guards. No servants waiting outside.
Alexy mutters again, low enough that only I hear, “He didn’t even send anyone to greet us.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. We both know exactly what that means.
We have nothing left to offer.
No fortune. No soldiers. No territories that matter here. Only a last name that still carries weight back home—and even that is fading.
Bakum Novikov doesn’t see this as a union. He sees it as a favor. A burden.
And I am the payment.
The door creaks open as Alexy shoves it, the heavy wood groaning like a dying man. Inside, the house smells like old wood polish, dust, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, or just the ghosts of it.
A man waits just inside the foyer, arms crossed, wearing a cheap suit that doesn’t quite hide the bulge of the gun at his hip. His dark eyes flick over Alexy with a bored sweep…then land on me.
Another figure moves behind him—an older woman, maybe late fifties, draped in too much jewelry and heavy perfume that doesn’t quite mask the sourness in the air.
Her eyes rake over me like a butcher inspecting meat, pausing on my boots, my hands, my face. She doesn’t bother hiding her disdain.
And just like that, I hate her.
With a small, sharp smile, I lift my chin higher, pretending her inspection means nothing. Pretending my blood doesn’t boil under my skin.
I’m Katya Riazanova—and I learned long ago that a pretty face and a vicious heart can be the sharpest weapons in the room.
The man in the suit steps forward, his face carved from apathy.
“You’re late,” he says, voice flat. No greeting. No welcome. Just that little jab, sharp enough to draw blood.
Alexy tightens his grip on the suitcase, but says nothing.
I flash the man a slow, lazy smile—the kind that used to make my father grind his teeth. “Fashionably late,” I purr. “It’s expected, isn’t it? For a bride?”
The lieutenant doesn’t even blink. Just turns, jerking his chin toward the cavernous hallway behind him. “This way.”
As we move to follow, the older woman steps directly into my path, forcing me to halt or run into her. Up close, the sourness of her perfume is even worse, clinging to her like a second skin. Her cold gaze drags over me again, lingering on my boots, my leather jacket, my bare throat.
Not good enough, her eyes say. Not nearly.
“At least she’s…presentable,” she murmurs, like I’m a piece of livestock being sold at auction. “Though I’d advise hiding those wrists. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re damaged goods.”
For one dangerous second, the world narrows to a pinpoint.
I see myself lunging forward, clawing that smug expression off her face.
Instead, I smile wider—so sweet it stings.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say, voice like honey laced with glass.
She steps aside, satisfied she’s put me in my place.
She hasn’t.
