Page 3 of Sexting the Bikers
She’s only reminded me what this is.
A stage.
A game with deadly stakes.
And I intend to survive it.
I shift my shoulders back, letting the house swallow me up as we follow the lieutenant down the hall, my boots thudding against the worn floors.
Every step, I tally the exits. Every shadow, I measure the distance.
Because there’s no cavalry coming.
There’s no fairy tale.
Just me, my instincts, and the cold certainty that if I want to live through this, I have to play the part better than anyone expects.
The perfect daughter. The perfect bride.
The lieutenant stops at a heavy double door, dark wood scarred with deep grooves like claw marks. He turns to me, his face as unreadable as stone. “Mr. Novikov will see you now,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”
The words slip out, syrupy and insolent.
Alexy stiffens behind me, his voice a tight whisper in my ear. “Behave.”
I can practically hear the unspoken warning in his tone—this is not the place nor the time.
The lieutenant doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even twitch. “Mr. Novikov has no time for frivolities,” he says, stepping aside. “Enter.”
When I move toward the door, Alexy makes to follow—but the lieutenant’s arm shoots out, blocking him without a word.
Only me.
Of course.
I hesitate for half a second—long enough to feel Alexy’s tension spike behind me—then lift my chin and push through the doors alone.
The air inside is heavy with cigar smoke and leather, the scent sinking into the thick, worn carpet underfoot. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with dark shelves, stuffed with books that look more like trophies than anything to read.
A massive oak desk dominates the far side of the room, its surface gleaming, bare except for a half-empty glass of dark liquor and a sharp silver letter opener gleaming in the low light.
Behind it sits Bakum Novikov.
He is not handsome. Not young.
His face is all harsh planes and hard angles, as if it was chiseled by a man who valued cruelty more than beauty. His iron-gray hair is slicked neatly back, no softness to it. His black eyes—flat, bottomless—pin me where I stand.
The man who, by tomorrow, will legally own me.
He watches me in silence, one thick hand curling around the base of the glass, the other resting lightly—too lightly—near the letter opener.
A predator at rest.
Bakum leans back in his chair, studying me with the detached interest a butcher gives a side of beef before the cut.
“You’re smaller than I expected,” he says at last, voice low and even. “Your father made you sound…larger.”
