Page 5 of Sexting the Bikers
KATYA
The rumble of motorcycles echoes around us, low and heavy, like a gathering storm.
Novikov stiffens, and for the first time since I entered the room…
I see him worried.
His eyes flick to the window as the low rumble of engines gets louder, closer. He sets his drink down with deliberate care and leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled.
“You should leave,” he says, voice flat. “The less you know about my business dealings, the better.”
I don’t move.
Something hot and reckless rises in me, burning away the ice I’ve carefully packed around my heart.
“You forget who I am,” I say, stepping closer to his desk, ignoring the way every instinct screams at me to back down. “I may have been born in this country, but I was raised in Russia. I’ve seen everything.”
For the first time, he smiles.
It’s not a kind smile.
It’s a butcher’s smile, slow and cruel.
“People who defy me,” he says softly, “tend to disappear.”
My mouth dries. I force myself not to step back.
His black gaze pins me there as he lifts his glass again, swirling the liquor lazily.
“My ex-wife,” he says, almost conversationally, “thought she could outsmart me. The feds bought her. Promised her protection if she testified. She never made it to the courthouse.”
A chill slithers down my spine, cold and oily, knotting my gut.
I open my mouth—whether to fight, to lie, to plead, I don’t even know?—
But the doors behind me slam open with a violent crash that echoes off the high ceilings.
I spin, heart hammering against my ribs.
Three men stride into the room like they own it. Big. Rough. Covered in ink and leather. Everything about them screams trouble. The kind you don’t outrun.
The one in the lead—black hair shot with silver at the temples, dark eyes cold enough to stop a heart—moves with deadly grace.
Next to him is a guy with messy dark hair and a cocky smirk flickering at his mouth. His eyes sweep the room and land on me, like he already knows what kind of mess I am.
The third man is colder—neat dark hair, pale blue eyes that slice straight through me. He doesn’t smile. He just watches, every inch of him locked down tight.
All three of them look at me.
Not at Bakum. Not at the lieutenant trying to stammer out an apology.
Me.
Heat punches through my stomach, low and fast.
They don’t even try to hide it—the way their gazes stick, sizing me up, weighing something I can’t name. The air feels heavier. Hotter.
Bakum’s lieutenant hurries forward, his face pale. “Apologies, Mr. Novikov. They insisted?—”
