Page 39 of Sexting the Bikers
“You don’t need any help with that,” Dog replies easily.
Bishop finally speaks up—low and even. “Both of you need to shut the fuck up.”
There’s a tense pause, boots shifting on the floor, the scrape of something dragged out of the way. I lean back slightly, heart pounding.
They’re fighting over me.
And I don’t know whether to feel powerful…or terrified.
I know I have to do some damage control. The tension rolling down the hallway is thick enough to choke on, and I have no doubt I’m the reason for at least eighty percent of it. Maybe ninety.
I take a deep breath, straighten my shirt, and swipe my fingers under my eyes—just in case I look like I tumbled out of someone’s bed. Which, of course, I did.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and paste on the kind of smile that used to get me out of trouble when I was sixteen and already smarter than the men trying to trap me.
Game face on. Time to remind them that I’m not just the problem—I can be the solution too.
I knock lightly on the open doorframe—just enough to break the standoff without appearing like I was eavesdropping, even though I definitely was—and step in like I belong there.
“Good morning, guys,” I say brightly, like this isn’t a powder keg and I’m not the lit match.
Three sets of eyes snap to me.
Dog’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, looking smug as hell. He lifts his brows at me likeyou had to pick now?but there’s amusement behind his eyes.
Bishop is seated, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight—watching me the way a sniper watches a target. Cool, unreadable, calculating.
And Reaper?
Reaper looks like someone just offered him a shot of bleach.
The muscle in his jaw twitches once. Hard.
I keep smiling. Big. Sweet. Just this side of smug.
Reaper doesn’t waste a second. “Were you eavesdropping?”
I don’t blink. I meet his eyes, tilt my head slightly, and smile like it’s a ridiculous question.
“I was walking back from the main room and heard shouting,” I say smoothly. “Forgive me for being curious when three men start arguing loud enough to shake the floorboards.”
Dog chuckles behind me.
Reaper stares at me like he’s waiting for me to slip, to twitch, to show even one crack in my game. But I’ve played with men who would slit your throat for blinking wrong. I can handle a pissed-off MC president.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, inhale slowly, then let the smile fall from my face. “Look,” I say, voice leveling out. “You don’t like me. That’s fine. But we don’t have time to waste playing dominant wolf versus disobedient houseguest.”
Reaper’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t speak. I take that as permission to keep going.
I fold my arms across my chest, casual, confident—even though my insides are chewing through themselves.
They’ll start arriving soon. My aunts, my cousins, their husbands and children—all dressed for a wedding they think is a peace treaty. A celebration. A fresh start.
And they’re walking straight into a massacre.
I have hours, if that. Maybe less.
But I can’t tell the bikers that. Not yet. They don’t trust me. And if I push too hard, too soon, they’ll shut me out completely.
