Page 49 of Sexting the Bikers
Dog actually grins—dark, wild, adrenaline still pumping through him—and starts rifling through pockets, tossing a cracked phone and a handful of cash onto the counter.
I stay where I am, hugging my legs to my chest, trying to be as small and invisible as possible.
These men were supposed to protect me.
That thought keeps spinning in my head, stuck on repeat, louder than the chaos outside. My own family. Alexy didn’t even say goodbye when he left last night; he just disappeared, like I didn’t matter. Now I see it for what it was—part of his plan, another move in a game where I was always the sacrificial piece.
So what makes him—or any of them—different from Novikov? Maybe nothing. Maybe I was always alone.
“You good?” Reaper asks, kneeling down just enough so he’s at my eye level. It’s the first time he’s shown even a sliver of humanity since I got here. For a split second, I almost let myself lean into that.
But I snap out of it. I can’t afford to let them see how helpless I feel. If I do, the wolves will descend. No one here protects the weak—not for long.
I force myself upright, shaking off the numbness. “Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, steady as I can manage.
Reaper points down the hallway. “Second door on your right.”
I nod, refusing to look anyone in the eye as I slip past the chaos and down the hall. I close the door, turn the lock, and finally let myself breathe. The small bathroom is cracked tile, harsh light, and a mirror streaked from too many rough hands and too few clean rags.
I stare at my reflection. My hair’s a mess, eyeliner smudged halfway down my cheeks, lips raw from biting them all night. I look less like a bride and more like someone’s ghost.
I turn on the tap, letting icy water run over my hands before splashing it onto my face, scrubbing away the smudges, the grime, the panic. It doesn’t help much. No amount of water can rinse away the look in my eyes.
This is it, I tell myself.Shake it off, Katya.
You want to survive? No more tears. No more fear.
You fight. No one else is coming for you.
When I stepout of the bathroom, the mood has shifted. The chaos is gone, replaced with the buzz of low voices, grunts of effort as bodies are dragged and moved, and the clink of bottles as someone starts sweeping up glass near the bar. The tension is still there, but it’s buried under the mechanics of survival.
A couple of the guys look up when they see me.
Their eyes linger. One of them—some lean, tattooed thing with a grin that’s a little too easy—lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Didn’t know we had a queen in our midst.”
Another chuckles. “She’s gonna raise the standard around here, that’s for damn sure.”
I offer them a coy little smile.
I’ve done this before—different room, different language, same game. I know what they want. I know what they expect. So I give them just enough to keep looking.
I ask one of them if they need help moving the table back, and he jumps to assist. We talk. I laugh at something dumb. I throw my head back just a little, tilt my body toward the next one.
They’re not used to women like me here.
I flash a small, wry smile at one of them—a guy named Rooster with arms like tree trunks and a tattoo that wraps fromhis neck to his knuckles. “You going to sweep all that glass, or are you waiting for a fairy godmother?”
He grins, tossing the broom handle from one hand to the other. “Depends. You volunteering?”
I arch a brow, the corner of my mouth curling up as I take the broom from him. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.” My voice is light, teasing.
Dog strolls by and bumps my hip with his. “Careful, princess. These guys will start fighting over who gets to hold your dustpan.”
I give him a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Then maybe they’ll stop shooting up the place.”
“This place is a mess,” Rooster mutters, sweeping up a pile of broken glass with his boot.
“You can tell the difference?” I shoot back, letting my voice go just dry enough to sting. “You’d think you’d have more pride in where you live.”
