Page 74 of Sexting the Bikers
My fingers touch the fabric and my stomach flips. In old Russia, brides wore red to ward off evil. To announce fertility. To promise strength. But this feels like something else. A warning. A flag planted in my skin to mark me as belonging to Novikov, to the Bratva, to a life soaked in violence. I back away from the dress slowly, like it might bite.
I swallow the taste of iron, forcing my hands steady. They want me frightened. They want me broken in crimson. I will not give them the satisfaction. If they dress me in blood, then blood is what they will remember when I find a way to escape.
I sit on the edge of the bed, heart thudding against my ribs, palms damp against my knees. This room smells like roses and mothballs, a prison dressed up as a bridal suite. There’s no mirror. No flowers. No warmth.
I don’t know if Reaper, Bishop, or Dog are coming. I don’t know if they ever were. Maybe Zaika was right—maybe I was a fool to think they would risk war for me. Maybe they never saw anything but leverage when they looked at me.
I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling. I won’t cry. I did that already, in the dark when no one was watching. I’m done begging.
My uncle must have known what Novikov planned to do with the wedding. Maybe he even encouraged it. I can see him now, sitting in his study, pouring expensive liquor, muttering about tradition and power and leverage. Saying things like,“It’s how the world works, Katya. Sacrifices must be made.”
The sacrifice was me.
I take a breath and pace the room, fury building in my chest like a kettle screaming to be let off the fire. My hands tremble, not from fear, but from how hard I’m gripping the back of a chair, imagining it’s someone’s throat.
I have no doubt in my mind that my family would come for me, but not to save me. No, if they show up, it’ll be to finish what they started. They’ll follow through with their original plan—use the wedding as an ambush, a pretext to take out Novikov, to grab for a bigger piece of power. My safety, my future…those are just convenient bargaining chips.
If I make it out of this alive, it won’t be because someone risked anything for me. It’ll be because I was useful until themoment I wasn’t, or because I figured out how to twist their plans to my own advantage. And if I don’t…well, at least I know where I stand.
Let them all come. I’m done playing the helpless bride. I will not go quietly—not for Novikov, not for my uncle, not for any of the men who think red means surrender. If this wedding is meant to be a bloodbath, then I’ll decide whose blood gets spilled.
I take the dress off its hook, hang it carefully in the deep end of the wardrobe, and let the empty garment bag fall to the floor. I stand in the middle of the room for a long moment, planning my next move. The window is small, not meant to open wide, but I know these old locks—push up hard enough and they’ll give with a pop and a scrape of paint.
I can’t risk actually escaping. Not yet.
But I can create the illusion.
I move to the bed and strip it down in practiced, efficient motions. The sheet is thick, high thread count, the kind that knots up tight but won’t tear easily. I work it between my hands, pulling it tight, then twisting and doubling back until it’s a long, sturdy rope. At each end, I knot a loop, one for the base of the nightstand, the other to dangle outside. The pillowcases I stuff with the rest of the bedding, bulking them up as best I can, tucking a second sheet around them to make a passable dummy. I arrange it beneath the blanket, smoothing out the fabric until it looks like someone sleeping, a dark head just visible on the pillow.
I step back and assess. In the half-light, it’s not perfect, but if someone glances in quickly, especially expecting me to be where I should be, they’ll see a shape under the covers and move on. Or maybe they’ll panic.
Either way, I’ll have a few seconds.
Next, I move to the window. I slide it open with both hands, bracing my feet against the radiator. It gives with a reluctant shriek, and I freeze, heart pounding, but no one comes. I breathe through my nose, pressing down the panic. I tie the sheet-rope to the heavy, brass leg of the nightstand, checking the knot twice to make sure it holds. The other end I toss out the window, letting it dangle two stories to the ground. I watch it twist in the air, white against the gathering dusk, and hope it catches someone’s attention.
Inside, the room smells different, like sweat and nerves and the faint metallic tang of fear. I sweep up the empty garment bag and kick it under the bed, just in case. With trembling hands, I pull open the closet door and slip inside, wedging myself behind the great red wedding dress. The silk is cold, the gold embroidery heavy, pressing against my face as I flatten myself into the narrow space.
My breath comes shallow, and I press a hand to my chest to steady myself. My heart pounds so hard I’m afraid it will give me away. My eyes adjust to the dark, and I wait.
I listen for footsteps, for voices. The house is alive with the faintest echoes, someone laughing distantly, the clatter of a tray in a kitchen, the dull thump of a door somewhere far away. Every so often, boots pass in the hallway outside. Each time, I hold my breath, pressing myself deeper into the shadowed corner of the closet.
I picture what will happen. Someone—Gregor, maybe, or one of Novikov’s other goons—will come to check on me. Maybe they’ll see the rope out the window first. Maybe they’ll spot the lumpy form in the bed. Either way, panic will ripple through the house, just long enough for everyone to be distracted.
I close my eyes for a heartbeat, fingers fisted in the folds of silk, and force myself to remember every hiding spot, every loose floorboard I found in this house since I arrived. I know howthese men move. I know what they expect. If I time this right, I can slip out while they’re searching the grounds or dragging the “sleeping” Katya out of bed.
I don’t let myself think about what happens if I get caught.
For now, I focus on staying silent. I make myself small and patient, all sharp edges and determination. I will wait, hidden in a nest of blood-red silk, until my moment comes. And when it does, when chaos finally erupts and they drop their guard, I’ll move.
For the first time in days, I feel like I have a choice again. Maybe not a good one. Maybe not even a safe one. But it’s mine, and I hold on to it, breath after breath, in the dark.
23
BISHOP
Isit on the edge of my bed, a tube of ointment open on my thigh.
My ribs ache, my jaw throbs, and the deep purple mark on my cheek looks like a warning to stay down. It stings when I dab on the cream, but in a strange way, I can’t help but feel more alive than I have in years. I’ve taken hits before, broken bones, bled for this club, but nothing has rattled me like the last twenty-four hours. Maybe it’s the stakes, or maybe it’s her.
