Page 42 of Sexting the Bikers
“You just painted a target on this whole clubhouse,” she snaps. “You’re too stupid and too proud to see that.”
The words hit harder than they should. Maybe because I know there’s a sliver of truth buried in the insult.
But I don’t let it show.
I walk up to her—slow, deliberate—and grab her arm hard enough to make my point but not enough to bruise. Her eyes meet mine, dark and unflinching.
“Nobody talks to me like that,” I growl. “Not even you.”
She doesn’t flinch. Hell, she doesn’t even blink. Most people back down when they see what I’m capable of. Not Katya.
“I know what he is,” she says. “Novikov. He slaughtered my aunt’s family too. Don’t tell me what he won’t do. You haven’t seen what he’s capable of.”
The words slam into me. She’s not bluffing. I can see it—etched into her face, sitting heavy in her voice. She’s not just scared. She’s haunted.
And for the first time, I hesitate.
Is it possible? Would Novikov be reckless enough to hit our clubhouse? The man’s dangerous, no doubt. But suicidal?
My grip loosens on her arm, just slightly. Enough to let the thought in.
Would he really risk war with us?
I glance toward Bishop, who’s watching closely, expression unreadable. Dog’s pacing in the corner like a caged animal.
Katya steps back, breathing hard. Her chest is rising and falling fast, eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t underestimate him,” she says, softer now. “He doesn’t care about consequences. He only cares about control. And you just told him you took something that belongs to him.”
I don’t answer.
I jerk my chin at Bishop. “Come with me.”
Dog opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a glare. “You stay here. Keep an eye on her.”
Katya watches me go, her eyes burning a hole in my back. I can feel it, that defiant little spark. God, she gets under my skin.
Bishop falls in beside me as we head down the hallway toward the war room. The walls here are lined with oldphotographs—club runs, parties, faces that aren’t with us anymore. I don’t look at them. I don’t want to think about what’s at stake.
Bishop’s the first to break the silence. “You’re actually considering what she said?”
I stop, look him dead in the eye. “And you aren’t?”
He says nothing. Just gives me that cool, measured stare.
We settle in the war room, door shut, blinds half-closed. The burner phone sits in the center of the table like a live grenade. I keep glancing at it, waiting for the damn thing to ring, waiting for Novikov to bite. It’s been half an hour. Not a word.
Silence. Not his style.
And now I can hear Katya’s voice in my head—You just painted a target on this whole clubhouse.I grit my teeth. The memory of her laughing at me, that bitter edge of smugness, pisses me off more than I’d like to admit.
I slam my fist against the desk. The phone jumps, but still doesn’t ring. My pulse hammers in my ears.
“They wouldn’t dare,” I mutter, more to myself than to Bishop.
But he’s already thinking it through. “Reap, what if they’ve scouted us as well as we’ve scouted them?”
I glare at him, but he’s right and I know it. Paranoia creeps in, cold and slippery.
“Call in the members. And the prospects. All of them,” I say, voice tight. “We’re not taking chances.”
