Page 77 of Sexting the Bikers
Behind me, a smaller group gathers, men who’ve taken more beatings than they can count, who understand that rushing in is sometimes a quick ticket to a pine box. I know them too. The risk-takers and the careful planners, all of us stitched together by the same battered colors.
The door creaks open and Reaper strides in, boots heavy on the boards, eyes taking in the split down the middle of the common room. His jaw is set hard, the kind of look that used to shut down any argument, but today the tension’s too thick to cut through so easily.
“Enough,” he says, voice echoing in the quiet. “This is ridiculous. One woman shouldn’t mess with us like this.”
I feel my hands tighten on the edge of the bar, but I don’t back down. “Well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it,” I say quietly. “She’s not just any woman.”
Dog’s chin lifts, a fierce pride in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. “Damn straight.”
The air hums with tension, the brothers looking between us and Reaper, waiting to see which way this will turn. I see the pain and the anger written in every line of Dog’s face, and I know he’s not going to give up—not on her, not on his principles.
Reaper’s eyes flicker, just for a second, to the old patch on Dog’s cut, then back to me. “So what, Bishop?” he asks, voice rougher now. “You think she’s worth burning down everything we’ve built?”
I look him dead in the eye, the way you do when there’s too much to say and no way to say it. “I think she’s worth not forgetting who we are.”
Dog doesn’t smile, but the set of his shoulders relaxes just a hair. For a second, nobody moves, and I realize just how fragile this moment is—how easy it would be for all of us to lose each other if we say the wrong thing.
“She had us all wrapped around her little finger,” Dog says, eyes blazing. “Gentlemen, you know what that Bratva princess is to us? She’s our queen. And I’m going to get her.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. I could step in his way. I could argue, try to talk sense into him, but the fire in Dog’s voice is the same thing burning in my own chest. Reaper stands, silent and unmoving, maybe waiting for someone else to step up and take control. But I don’t. None of us do.
Dog shoves past Reaper, who doesn’t even try to block his path this time. Something’s shifted. No one’s calling him back. Even I just stand still, breath caught halfway between pride and dread. The rest of the club is quiet, watching through the windows as he grabs his cut, swings a leg over his bike, and kicks the engine to life.
The machine roars, the echo bouncing off the old walls, and I watch him go, dust and sunlight chasing his taillight. For a moment, I wish I could have said something—anything—but the words catch in my throat. Dog is already rolling out, a man with nothing left to lose except what he’s riding toward.
I turn to face Reaper, and the rest of the brothers, knowing that everything’s changed now. Lines have been drawn, and the only question left is which side we’re all willing to bleed for.
24
KATYA
Icrouch behind the red wedding dress, knees tucked to my chest, the silk cool against my cheek. The closet smells of cedar and old perfume, a cloying sweetness that makes my throat close. I try to breathe quietly, counting the seconds between each inhale, focusing on the steady rhythm so I don’t lose my nerve. Outside the door, the house is changing. A low rumble begins, like thunder rolling across floorboards.
At first it’s just one set of footsteps, measured and confident, a guard following his routine. Then the footsteps stop. Silence stretches long and thin. I imagine him spotting the sheet rope dangling from my window, the pale fabric twisting in the evening breeze. In my mind, I see confusion flash across his face, quickly turning to panic. A man like that hates surprises. He will call it in, and the storm will break.
Someone barks orders near the landing. The words rush by in Russian, too fast to catch every syllable, but I hear enough to understand. They think I’ve escaped.
Every slam of a door makes me flinch. My heart hammers so hard it feels like a fist against my ribs. The closet is suddenly too small. I taste dust on my tongue, fear thick in my blood.
A voice rises outside my door. It’s Gregor. I recognize the gruff tone, the authority in every word. He curses, orders two men to search the adjoining bathroom, another to check the balcony. Keys jangle. The doorknob rattles once, twice, then stops. I picture him standing there, glaring at the lock, deciding where to look next.
Please walk on. Please believe I climbed out that window.The prayer curls in my mind, though I’m not sure who I direct it to. I hold my breath and close my eyes, listening to their anger build like a storm trapped in the hallway.
A crash echoes down the corridor, something heavy hitting a wall. Someone shouts that they’ve found the rope. Another voice argues, says there’s no sign of me on the ground below. Confusion spreads like gasoline on water.
I crouch behind the thick folds of red silk, cheek pressed against the wood panel, breathing through parted lips. A strip of hallway light leaks through the narrow gap where the closet doors meet. Every muscle in my body quivers with the urge to run, but I stay frozen, waiting.
The door handle to my room clicks. I bite the inside of my cheek as the door swings open, hinges whining.
They don’t bother with the bed or the bathroom. They stride straight to the window, their silhouettes blotting out what little moonlight slips into the room. One man jerks the sheet rope, testing the knot I left on the nightstand leg. The rope gives a soft creak.
“Nevozmozhno,” he mutters in Russian, voice tense. “She’s really gone.”
The other leans out, scanning the grounds below. “How far could she get in ten minutes?” He spits the words, frustrated.
A cold thrill rushes up my spine. They believe the lie.
One of them smacks his palm against the window frame. “Search teams outside,” he snaps. “Lock everything.”
