Page 69 of Sexting the Bikers
Zaika waves two fingers. A guard moves to a bedroom door, opens it. Katya steps out, chin high, though her eyes flash with alarm when she spots Bishop’s split lip and the ring of guns around us. No one’s touched her; she looks shaken but intact. Relief punches through me so hard my knees wobble.
“You hurt her and I swear—” I start.
Zaika cuts me off with a mild look. “I have no reason to harm the bride. My grievance is with incompetence and disrespect, not beauty.” He steps closer, polished shoes silent on thick carpet. Up close his cologne is subtle, expensive, and utterly at odds with the menace in his eyes. “But you, Ravager, barged into my suite with a gun. That shows lack of judgment.”
I swallow hard. My mouth feels full of sand. He knows who I am. “We thought she was in trouble.”
“Trouble?” He laughs softly. “You bring trouble. Yet perhaps we can use it.” He glances at Katya, then back to me. “You wish to keep her alive. I wish to see Novikov humbled. We share goals, if not methods.” His gaze sharpens. “The question is whether you can behave long enough to be useful.”
The guard at my side tightens his grip on my shoulder, a reminder of the guns still aimed my way. I meet Katya’s eyes—silent plea, silent promise—and breathe slow, trying to steady the shaking in my hands.
Katya tries to pull back, but two guards grip her arms and tow her toward the adjoining suite. The door clicks shut behind them, her protests muffled by thick walls. I lunge a half-step after her before a barrel digs into the base of my skull.
“What do you plan to do with her?” My voice is low, shaking with fury I can’t hide.
Zaika buttons his jacket, unhurried. “The shlyukha is not your concern. I’ll return her to Novikov.”
My stomach twists. Calling her a whore is bad enough; handing her back to that butcher is worse. Muscles burn to make a move, to break a wrist, to put a fist through his smug face.
Zaika’s smile sharpens. “Gregor has a gun to your head, Usev has one to your kneecaps, and I”—he slips a nickel-plated pistol from a shoulder rig, sights lining up with the center of my chest—“have one pointed at your heart. Where would you like to take a bullet first?”
Heat roars in my ears. Every nerve screams act, but Bishop coughs from the carpet, blood on his teeth. “Dog,” he rasps, “get out of here.”
I don’t move. Can’t. Katya’s terrified face is burned behind my eyes.
Zaika cocks the hammer with a soft click. “Choose quickly, Ravager.”
Finger by finger, I force my hands to relax from fists and raise them shoulder-high, palms showing empty. Rage simmers, but I keep my voice even. “Let her go and you get Novikov served on a platter. Hurt her and the Ravagers burn your operations from here to Brighton Beach.”
Zaika studies me, assessing, then lowers the pistol a fraction, curiosity flickering in his gaze. It’s not mercy—just calculation. His wrist flicks in a loose circle, the motion almost lazy, but every man in the room tightens around it like a command. “Drop your guns,” he says, voice mild enough to pass for polite. “Consider them the price of admission.”
Gregor’s pistol digs harder into the back of my head. Usev’s barrel still hovers a breath from my kneecap. Bishop wheezes on the carpet, one eye already swelling shut. I weigh the odds. Two of us, at least fifteen of them, and Katya behind that closed door. One twitch and guns will blaze, odds going to zero.
My fingers curl, knuckles white around air. I look at Bishop—he gives a barely perceptible nod. He knows we’re dead if we don’t play along.
My pistol lies on a side table already, confiscated, but Bishop slowly drags his backup from an ankle holster and slides it across the carpet. I take the second piece from my waistband, drop it with a soft clatter. Two guards scoop them up immediately, stepping back like smug vultures.
Zaika’s mouth twitches, pleased. “Good. Now you listen. Don’t bother us again. Russian business is not yours to meddle in.”
The suite is silent except for Bishop’s ragged breathing. My pulse bangs in my ears. I want to launch myself at Zaika, break his nose, drag him to the window and show him how fast a man falls. Instead I swallow every bit of fury, stare him straight in the eye, and burn his face into my memory.
Zaika flicks two fingers toward Bishop’s crumpled form. “Go on, take him. I won’t stop you.”
Cold certainty rolls down my spine. Any one of these men could put a bullet in us before we reach the hallway. Still, I crouch, hook an arm under Bishop’s and haul him upright. He wobbles but keeps his feet, blood dripping from his lip.
Zaika’s gaze follows every movement, amused and bored at once. “Careful, Ravager. Wouldn’t want you stumbling and embarrassing yourself.”
I adjust my grip on Bishop, steady him, then turn, meeting Zaika’s eyes. “You may be the big bad where you come from, but this is Ravager territory. You’re a guest here, and right now, you’re abusing the privilege.”
He laughs softly, the sound like ice cracking on a lake. “And what are you going to do about it?”
I step back with Bishop’s weight heavy against me, letting the silence stretch until the guards shift on their feet, uncertainty slipping in at the edges. “It’s not what I’ll do now you should worry about.”
Zaika raises an eyebrow, still smiling.
I loop Bishop’s arm over my shoulders, the copper smell of blood strong enough to taste. His right eye is swelling shut, lips split, breath rasping like broken glass. Each step drags his boot across the thick carpet, dark drops spattering the beige fibers. Zaika’s men watch in silence, hands never drifting far from theirholsters. My spine crawls; one twitch from them and Bishop will drop before I can blink.
A muffled thud comes from the adjoining bedroom—Katya, maybe struggling, maybe begging. Leaving her burns like acid, but Bishop’s weight grows heavier by the second. I tighten my grip, every muscle straining, and guide him toward the door. The crystal decanter on the sideboard catches my eye; amber liquor reflects the ceiling light in lazy waves, oblivious to the tension strangling the room. Past that, a Persian rug lies skewed from the scuffle, red patterns smeared with a thin line of blood where Bishop hit the floor.
