Page 71 of Sexting the Bikers
I blink hard, refusing to let tears fall. There will be a time to break, but not here, not now. I’m Katya Riazanova, and I will not let any of them—Dog, Bishop, Reaper, Zaika, Novikov—define what happens next. If no one is coming for me, then I’ll save myself.
Half an hour passes in a thick, stifling silence. I pace as far as the plastic ties let me, stubbornly refusing to let fear sink in too deep. When the door finally opens, it’s two men in suits. One holds a pistol low at his side; the other steps forward with a pocketknife and slices through the ties at my wrists. The sting as the plastic snaps away is almost a relief, but I can’t help rubbing my wrists, glaring at them both. “No need to be so dramatic,” I mutter, but neither one cracks a smile.
They motion with the gun toward the duffel on the floor. “Get dressed,” the bigger one grunts.
I kneel and unzip it, trying not to let my hands shake. Inside, the only thing remotely wearable is a dress—tight black fabric, too short, clings to every curve, a plunging neckline I’d never choose on my own. Clearly meant to make me feel exposed, maybe to humiliate me in front of Novikov, a little warning from Zaika about who’s in control. I almost laugh at the pettiness of it, but all I do is grit my teeth and pull it on, squaring my shoulders even as the hem rides high up my thighs.
They give me five seconds to tug my hair into place before motioning me out the door. The hallway smells like old carpetand expensive aftershave. I walk between them, head high, trying to look bored. There’s no use struggling now—I need to get outside, need an opportunity to run, not a bullet in my back in some hotel corridor.
The elevator ride is silent, the men keeping a step behind me, close enough to make a grab if I even flinch wrong. I force myself not to look at my reflection in the shiny doors, hating the way the dress feels on my skin.
Downstairs, a black car waits at the curb, engine running, windows tinted dark as secrets. A driver in sunglasses holds the door open. One of the guards presses a hand at the small of my back, not gently, nudging me forward.
I slide into the back seat, spine rigid, heart racing. The door shuts with a cold, final sound, and the car slides away from the curb, carrying me closer to Novikov—and whatever nightmare he has waiting. I clench my hands in my lap and remind myself,This isn’t over. Not until I say it is.
The drive feels endless. The city lights blur and vanish, replaced by stretches of dark road and thick, tangled woods pressing in from both sides. My gut twists with every mile. I try to imagine what waits at the end of this ride—what Novikov will say, what he’ll do, whether I’ll even walk back out through those gates once I’m delivered like a trussed-up offering.
By the time the car finally slows, my hands are damp, knuckles white on my knees. The estate gates swing open, spilling yellow light onto the gravel, and the vehicle crawls up the drive to the house that’s haunted my dreams for weeks.
When the car stops, Zaika is already out, moving with casual arrogance. One of the guards opens my door and I step out, head held high even as my stomach plummets. Novikov himself is standing at the top of the steps, flanked by his men, the porch lights casting his shadow long and menacing across the stones.
They embrace like brothers, all backslapping and fake warmth. Novikov’s eyes flick to me, cold and glittering, and my heart sinks to my toes. They’re on the same side—at least for now.
“Zaika! My old friend, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Zaika laughs, the sound cold and practiced. “Had to come see for myself what’s worth all this fuss.” His gaze slides to me. “And bring you a lost package.”
My heart sinks so hard I feel dizzy. Their voices blur together, trading pleasantries.
All the hope I had that Zaika might be some kind of check on Novikov’s madness evaporates in the night air. My only value is in what they can trade for me—or do to me.
I try to keep my breathing even, the mask of indifference frozen on my face, but inside, every alarm in my body is screaming.
Gregor’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, steering me forward. I stumble up the front steps, forced into the yellow glare of the porch lights. Novikov steps down to meet me, his suit perfect, his face stretched into a smile I remember from childhood nightmares.
He takes my chin between his thumb and finger, tilting my face up, his grip just a little too firm. My stomach lurches and I have to swallow hard to keep from jerking away.
“My Katya,” he purrs, pretending at affection for the audience. “I’ve missed you so much. When I heard you’d vanished, I thought your family must have kidnapped you in our old traditions.” He clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Imagine my surprise when they all claimed innocence. But here you are, come back to me. Come, my darling. I’m glad you are home.”
I glare at him, refusing to flinch. I want to spit in his face. He doesn’t let go, squeezing just hard enough to remind me who’s in control.
He glances at Zaika, still wearing that painted-on smile. “Young brides. Always nervous, eh?”
Zaika’s eyes are cold and unreadable as he steps closer, his voice low and deadly. “Now that I’m here, I’ll stay for the wedding. My men will keep an eye on her for you—since she slipped from your grasp once already.”
Novikov’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he slips his arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him, holding me in place for everyone to see. Every cell in my body screams to break away, but I stay rigid, determined not to give either man the satisfaction.
Gregor yanks me toward the door, and as I stumble inside, I realize every path just led me right back to the cage I tried so hard to escape. I square my shoulders, biting my tongue, and promise myself that if there’s even the faintest crack in this gilded prison, I’ll find it—before either of these men get what they want.
21
REAPER
Istand near the battered pool table, arms folded tight, the only light in the clubhouse coming from the kitchen doorway and the red glow of the exit sign. Dog paces back and forth, bootheels pounding grooves into the dirty floor, while Bishop sits slumped on a barstool, letting Twitch fuss over the bruises and split skin on his face. The smell of disinfectant mixes with stale beer and blood.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. Every muscle in my body wants to lash out—at Dog for being reckless, at Bishop for getting caught, at myself for letting this happen. Katya is gone. The Russians outplayed us in our own backyard, took her from right under our noses.
Twitch glances at me, then back to the wound he’s cleaning. “We should have gone in together,” he mutters, voice low but clear.
