Page 80 of Sexting the Bikers
She’s trembling, tears streaking her cheeks. I kiss them, tasting salt and something that feels like relief. “I’d do it again,”I promise, breathing her in. “Even if it was the stupidest move of my life. I don’t care about odds. I care about you.”
She chokes out a laugh that turns into another sob. “You’re a damn fool.”
I shrug, brushing her hair from her face, memorizing every line, every scar, every look in her eyes. “That’s me. Your damn fool.”
She leans her forehead to mine again, eyes glistening. I know what I need to say. What I should have said days ago, or maybe only minutes. I can’t swallow it down anymore. “Katya, I think I’m in love with you.” The words come out rough, torn from somewhere deep.
Her eyes go wide—startled, scared, hopeful. For a second neither of us moves, both of us suspended in the moment, all the world narrowed to this battered, hidden place and the mess we’ve made of each other.
She touches my cheek, gentle and unsure. “You can’t mean that.”
But I do. I’ve never been more sure of anything. “I do. I love you. Doesn’t matter what happens next. Doesn’t matter if I’m crazy or doomed. It’s you, Katya.”
The fear in her face softens, her mouth trembling into a wobbly smile. She presses herself tighter against me, tears and sweat and everything else blurring away. “I don’t know if I deserve that,” she whispers.
Katya clings to me, both of us still breathless in the cramped crawlspace, our bodies tangled and sweat cooling. I run a thumb over her jaw, feel the tremor in her muscles. Her eyes shine with fear and something fiercer—hope, maybe, or the refusal to give up.
“What now, Dog?” she whispers, voice husky.
“We get out of here,” I say, more certain than I feel.
“But how?” she asks, the shake in her words betraying her nerves.
I squeeze her hand. “The same way I got in—through the vent.” I jerk my head back the way I came, toward the faint silver glow at the far end. “We crawl until we find daylight.”
She nods, gathering herself. “Will it be safe?”
I give a short, low laugh. “Don’t know till we try, princess. But it’s better than waiting for Gregor to find us down here.”
We rearrange our clothes, and with her in front of me, I guide her into the vent. The metal groans under our weight, but it holds. My heart thumps in my ears as we inch forward, the cramped space barely enough for our bodies. Dust chokes my lungs, the only sound our scraping, hurried breaths and the shudder of the metal.
We reach the grate. I press my shoulder to it, wincing as it pops free and tumbles into the tall grass outside. Cool night air washes over us. Katya crawls out first, then I slide after, my boots squishing in the damp soil.
“Come on,” I urge, grabbing her hand. We run low through the knee-high grass, legs burning, every muscle braced for a shout or the crack of a gun.
The house is chaos, searchlights sweeping the windows, voices barking orders in Russian.
We cross the lawn, the massive estate looming behind us. The stand of trees that borders the property is so close I can smell pine. Hope flares in my chest.
Then, a searchlight slams over us—white and blinding. “There!” someone shouts. “On the lawn!”
“Run!” I bark, dragging Katya with me, feet pounding over wet grass. Gunfire erupts behind us. Bullets tear up dirt, thudding into the trunks as we dive for the cover of the trees.
We hit the ground, rolling, Katya gasping against my shoulder. Voices are closing in fast, boots crushing theundergrowth. My heart pounds, not from fear, but from the drive to keep her safe.
Hands clamp down on my arms, rough and unyielding, yanking me to a halt just steps from the hedge. I try to twist free, fist raised, but there are too many—four, five, maybe more. They wrench my arms behind my back, slam me down, a knee grinding into my spine. Katya screams my name, but they’ve already got her too, dragging her by the arms, her hair tangled over her eyes.
She screams my name, but she’s yanked away, her face white with terror as she fights against two men twice her size.
They shove us both down, guns pressed to our backs, and march us toward the house. The darkness of freedom behind us shrinks with every step. Inside, they drag us through hallways slick with the scent of bleach and old violence, back down to the basement, where it’s suddenly blindingly bright, fluorescent bulbs humming overhead.
I stumble as they throw me onto the concrete floor. This is a different part of the basement, deeper—now there’s a long drain in the center of the floor, blood pooled around the edges. Rust-colored stains mark the concrete and the cinderblock walls. Hooks dangle from the ceiling beams. A black plastic tarp is rolled up in one corner, splattered with something I know isn’t paint.
The metallic stink of blood hangs heavy in the air, and I realize this isn’t just a hiding place. It’s a killing room. The kind of spot you don’t walk out of if the wrong people have your name.
Katya is shoved down beside me, her hair tangled, dress ripped, fear blazing in her eyes. She clings to my arm, knuckles white. I try to twist, to cover her with my body, but a boot slams between my shoulders, pinning me down.
One of Novikov’s men crouches in front of me, face blank and hard. “You picked the wrong night to be a hero, American.”
