Page 56 of Sexting the Bikers
Before I can answer, Bishop speaks up, that calm, dangerous tone of his slicing through the tension like a knife. “And who you do is none of our business.” His gaze is steady, flat, giving nothing away. But there’s an edge under his words that’s sharp as a blade.
I glare at him, but he just looks back, unblinking.
And then it hits me, what this is really about.
There’s no mistaking the way Dog’s looking at me, or the calculated indifference on Bishop’s face. The truth is right there in the air between us, so thick I could carve it out with a knife.
I don’t say anything, but my mind’s working fast. One of them—maybe both—must’ve seen me with Katya last night. Maybe they saw her in my room, or hell, maybe they just knowme too well not to guess. I should care more about what this means for the club, for our standing, for all the rules I just bent and broke. But the only thing I feel is that primal possessiveness all over again—hot and ugly in my veins.
No one says her name, but we don’t have to. It’s all there in the silence, in the set of Dog’s jaw, in the way Bishop looks everywhere but at me.
Dog, I get—he’s always been the wild one, always fallen too fast for the wrong women, always worn his heart on his sleeve and acted like it didn’t mean shit. I’ve seen the way he looks at Katya, the way he lights up when she’s in the room, the way he tries to hide it behind jokes and swagger. Puppy crush, plain as day.
But Bishop? That’s new. Bishop doesn’t get close to anyone. He doesn’t trust, doesn’t let anyone in, not even me, and we’ve ridden together for years. Yet the way he’s acting now, the careful words, the distance, the way his eyes flick past me when I mention her, it’s all there. He wants her too.
This thing with Katya was supposed to be simple. A bargaining chip. A lever to pry cash out of Novikov. But the moment I took her to my bed it stopped being simple; now every eye in the clubhouse is measuring how deep she’s sunk in her hooks, how far I’ll bend.
The realization lands heavy—Dog and Bishop aren’t just irritated. They’re sizing me up. Dog is younger, quick as a blade in a street fight. Bishop is calm, methodical, just as deadly and twice as precise. In a brawl, either one alone is trouble. Together? If they decide I’ve lost the thread, lost the authority that keeps all of us upright, I might not walk out of this room on my feet.
I flex my fingers against the bar, slow, deliberate, forcing the tension down. I’m still the president. My word is still law. But forthe first time in years, I feel the edge of the knife I carry press back against me, testing the thickness of my skin.
Katya’s footsteps sound in the hall—light, unhurried—and the air changes. Two pairs of eyes shift past me toward the doorway.
Katya steps into the common room wearing one of my old T-shirts, hem brushing her thighs, hair a dark tumble around her shoulders. She’s fresh from a shower, skin still damp, smelling like someone who doesn’t know there’s a war outside.
“Good morning,” she says, bright as sunrise.
None of us answer.
Dog stares at the floor, jaw stiff. Bishop raises his glass to his lips but never drinks. I keep my arms folded, waiting to see who moves first.
Katya’s smile falters. “What’s wrong with you three?”
Dog barks an ugly little laugh. “Nothing, princess. Just didn’t sleep as well as some people.” His gaze finally lifts to hers, accusing. “I saw you last night…with him.” His head jerks in my direction. “Didn’t know we were just passing you around now.”
The color drains from her cheeks, then floods back in a rush. She turns crimson, lips parting for half a second before she catches herself, standing taller. “You jealous, Dog?” she fires back, lifting her chin, not backing down. “You’re acting like this is junior high.”
Bishop’s knuckles tighten around his glass, his eyes cold as winter, watching all of us, calculating every word, every breath. “Let’s not turn this into a soap opera,” he mutters, voice clipped.
Katya rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Seriously? Is this what it’s going to be? You saved my life last night. All of you did. Now you’re going to tear each other apart because of…this?” She gestures between herself and Dog, then herself and Bishop. “Novikov’s out there. My family just tried to kill me. And you want to fight amongst yourselves?”
Dog’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Bishop breathes through his nose, expression cooling even further.
Katya moves into the center of the room, forcing us all to look at her, demanding attention. “If you want to fight, take it outside. Otherwise, get your shit together.”
She’s right. The danger isn’t inside these walls; it’s parked just beyond the tree line, loading magazines and plotting our graves.
She folds her arms across her chest, eyes blazing, stance firm. She’s smaller than all of us, but right now she might as well be ten feet tall.
“Bottom line,” she says, voice steel, “I need all of you to stop acting like idiots. Novikov owes you money. You really gonna stand around pouting and let him get away with it?”
My pride burns, throat tight. Something about the way she looks at me, that defiant tilt of her chin, sparks irritation deep in my chest. “You don’t get to tell me how to handle club business,” I snarl.
Her eyes narrow, lips pursed in challenge. “Clearly somebody has to.”
Heat rushes up the back of my neck. I step toward her, temper frayed. “Careful, princess,” I say, voice dangerously soft, sarcastic. “Don’t forget your place. You’re not the one running shit around here—you’re just another brat who got herself fucked into protection.”
The slap echoes loud as a gunshot, snapping my head to the side. My cheek burns, adrenaline flooding my veins.
