Page 32 of Sexting the Bikers
I tilt the bottle to my lips again, then set it down harder than I mean to. It rattles against the counter, like it’s agreeing with me. Loud. Sloppy. Impulsive.
Just like me.
Was she even worth it?
I think about her—about the look on her face when I pulled up, the way she didn’t beg but still looked like she might fall apart if she stood still too long. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I justdidn’t want to be another bastard who stood by and watched her burn.
Still.
Reaper’s not wrong.
She’s Novikov’s. Or shewas.And bringing her here? It might’ve just lit a match under every bridge we ever built with the Bratva.
I lean back in the chair, let my head fall against the wall behind me, and stare at the cracked ceiling paint like it holds answers.
It doesn’t. But I can’t stop thinking about my old man.
My father would’ve called me reckless.
Not that he ever had much time to say shit.
MC royalty, they used to call him—Maddox the Hammer. Old-school. Feared. Respected. Until his own brothers stabbed him in the back, handed him over to the feds when things got messy. He rotted in a cell while they slapped patches on new recruits and pretended loyalty meant something.
I was thirteen when it happened.
Fifteen when Reaper found me fighting three kids twice my size in the back alley of some shithole bar. He pulled me off the last one and looked at me like I was a problem he didn’t have time for.
But he didn’t abandon me.
He taught me to ride. Taught me to fight cleaner. Taught me how to shut the hell up and survive. When I patched in, he said, “You wear this, you bleed for it. You never walk away.”
That meant something to me.
Still does.
Which is why this fight’s got my gut twisted.
I’m still staring at the bottle when I hear a sound—soft footfalls, the creak of the floorboard by the hallway. I look upjust as she steps into the kitchen, and for a second, I forget every damn thing I was just chewing over.
Katya.
She looks…different.
Not in a dramatic way. Her clothes are the same, her hair’s still a mess from the wind, but there’s something about her expression—unfocused, like she’s not quite in her body yet. Lips a little swollen. Cheeks flushed. Like she’s been somewhere hot and hasn’t cooled down yet.
Or like she just walked out of someone’s bed.
I blink. And just like that, every thought I had about loyalty, betrayal, the club—gone. Evaporated.
I grin, slow and easy, leaning back in my chair like I haven’t been sulking like a kicked dog for the past half hour. “Well, well,” I say, raising my brows. “Where’ve you been, princess?”
She blinks at me, like she didn’t expect to see anyone here. Like she’s not quite sure if she should answer.
She brushes a loose strand of hair from her face, voice steady even if her eyes aren’t. “Went up to charge my phone,” she says, and her lips twitch like she’s not sure whether to smirk or lie. “Courtesy of Bishop.”
I raise an eyebrow, slow. I don’t miss the way she says his name. Or how she’s not quite looking at me.
“Where’s he now anyway?” she asks casually, too casually.
