Page 44 of Sexting the Bikers
I glare at him, defiance pouring out of every word. “You were ready to send me off to—” I choke on the rest, the truth too dangerous to spit out.
Bishop studies me, voice suddenly lower, searching. “What’s really going on, Katya? What are you hiding?” He steps closer, gaze hard as steel. “Why don’t you want your family to go to the wedding?”
My mouth clamps shut. I can’t risk it. Not yet.
The room tightens with unsaid things. And then—without warning—a bullet rips through the glass, spraying shards everywhere. Time stutters. Bishop tackles me to the ground as another round punches through the wall, glass raining over us both.
We hit the floor hard, Bishop shielding me with his body as chaos erupts outside. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears, and I can taste blood in the back of my throat, adrenaline washing every other thought away.
Bishop half drags, half pulls me into the hallway, glass crunching under his boots. My head is spinning, adrenaline roaring in my veins, but I force myself upright. We barely get clear before Dog rounds the corner, wild-eyed.
“What the hell happened?” he asks, voice pitched low but urgent.
“They’re attacking already,” Bishop says, grim and breathless.
Dog looks me up and down, hands hovering like he wants to check for wounds. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, brushing dust from my arm, trying to steady my voice. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“We need to know how many are out there,” Bishop says, glancing from me to Dog. He’s already calculating, planning.
Dog nods. “We only saw one sedan, but there could be more. I swear I heard them earlier, moving around.”
Bishop’s mouth sets in a hard line. He’s angry, but it’s a cold anger, all calculation and ice.
Reaper comes barreling down the hall, gun already drawn, but Bishop lifts a hand and gestures sharply for him to crouch. Reaper does, eyes raking the hallway, then glancing at the splintered door, then finally—almost reluctantly—at me.
“Front door reinforced?” Bishop asks.
“Yes,” Reaper grunts. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he drifts off, eyes lingering on me longer than he means to. I realize he’s checking if I’m hurt. If I’m still in one piece.
I swallow, forcing my back straight, refusing to let any of them see how shaken I am. I keep my voice flat, even as my pulse hammers in my ears. “What now?”
Bishop’s jaw is tight, his eyes scanning every shadow like he’s seeing threats in the drywall. “We can’t do anything until we know what we’re up against,” he mutters. He’s already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth. “Let me check the security cams.”
He crouches low, all muscle and tension, and crawls to the first room on the right—just past where the bullet tore through the hallway. The door swings shut behind him, cutting off my view of the monitors. I hate not knowing. I hate waiting, useless, heart slamming so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
Dog’s beside me, crouched but restless, fingers twitching as he peers around the corner. Reaper kneels by the door, gun drawn, eyes fixed on the entryway like he can keep danger out by sheer force of will.
A minute ticks by—maybe more. Every second feels like an hour.
Finally, Bishop returns, shutting the door gently behind him. His expression is even grimmer than before, but his voice is steady.
“I don’t see anyone else on the property. Just the one sedan, empty now. No movement in the brush, no heat signatures, nothing on the outbuildings.”
Reaper’s voice is a low growl, echoing down the hallway. “What the fuck are they planning?” He’s tense, knuckles white around the grip of his gun. Nobody answers. Nobody knows.
I bite my lip, scanning the shadowy corners of the hall. Everything feels wrong, stretched too tight, like something’s about to snap. Then—soft, almost buried under the hush—there’s a sound I nearly miss. Faint at first, so faint I think I’m imagining it. But then I catch it again, unmistakable—my phone ringtone. The one I never changed from default.
It comes from somewhere farther down the hall, muffled and insistent.
My heart leaps. “I need to get to my phone,” I say as I turn to Bishop. “It might be important.”
Reaper cuts in. “How would he know where it is?”
Bishop doesn’t look at me—he looks away, jaw tense. “It’s in my office,” he says. “She was charging it in my room last night.”
A flicker of heat crawls up my neck. I know Reaper catches it—he’s watching Bishop closely, the kind of look that dissects more than it asks, like he’s trying to solve an equation with two missing variables.
