Page 82 of Sexting the Bikers
I stumble, the dress twisted and torn, my hair a mess. The blood on my hands isn’t even mine, but it stains me all the same. Novikov shoves me ahead, his face twisted in that cold mask of his, lips pressed thin as he leans close. “Don’t think about running, Katya,” he whispers, voice like a knife pressed to my skin. “If you do, I’ll finish what I started with your American friend. I’ll make sure you watch.”
The threat makes my stomach heave, bile rising in my throat. I hate him. I hate this place, this nightmare, this body thatbetrays me with its fear. I want to scream at him, claw his eyes out, anything to stop the panic that’s rising in my chest.
But Zaika steps up behind him, clearing his throat. For a second, Novikov falters, glancing over his shoulder. The two of them exchange a few quiet words in Russian. Zaika’s voice is low and dry, but whatever he says makes Novikov’s hand drop from my arm. He steps back, face tightening with anger, and then, he just lets me go. Not free, but no longer under his touch.
I’m left standing in the entryway, shivering, every inch of me aching. Tears keep streaming down my cheeks, but I don’t care who sees. There’s nothing left to hide, nothing left to save. I’ve lost everything tonight. My pride, my freedom, maybe even Dog. Tomorrow, I’ll lose my family too. It’s just a matter of time.
I’m still on the floor when they grab me, rough hands closing around my arms, dragging me upright. My knees barely hold, the pain and shock mixing with exhaustion as they march me back upstairs. The hallway blurs, voices echoing off the walls, none of them kind. I keep my head down, staring at the faded carpet, numb and empty as they shove me into my room and slam the door behind me. The lock clicks, sealing me in.
As soon as the footsteps fade, I collapse onto the edge of the bed and the tears come, hot and endless, burning tracks down my cheeks. I can’t stop shaking. Every time I try to breathe, I see Dog’s bloodied face, the defiance in his eyes as he took blow after blow for me. My chest aches, guilt winding tighter with every second. It was so stupid to run. All I’ve done is make things worse—for him, for myself, for everyone.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to push away the images, but it’s impossible. Downstairs, Dog is fighting for his life, and I can’t do a damn thing. Novikov has me caged like an animal, and the only reason Dog is still alive is so I’ll put on a dress and walk down the aisle in the morning. If I so much as hesitate, I know exactly what will happen. I don’t trust Novikov for a second. Iknow the game he’s playing. As soon as I’m his, Dog’s usefulness will run out.
That thought makes me curl up on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. My body aches, and my heart aches even more. I want to believe someone will come for me. I want to believe there’s still a way out of this mess. But right now, locked in this room, with the world crashing down around me, all I can do is cry and pray that Dog survives the night.
The next day,the sun is already high by the time the door opens and the stylist breezes in, arms full of brushes and bottles. She barely glances at me before launching into her routine, setting up on the vanity. I catch my own reflection and almost don’t recognize the girl in the mirror—bloodshot eyes, face swollen from crying all night.
The stylist purses her lips. “Let’s see what we can do about those eyes,” she mutters, already dabbing some cooling gel under them. “Nothing a little de-puffing and good concealer can’t handle.”
I turn my head away, voice raw. “Just get it over with.”
She tsks, unbothered. “Well, we actually have plenty of time. The wedding’s delayed.”
That catches my attention, heart thudding. “What do you mean? Delayed?”
She shrugs, twisting a curling iron in her hand. “Not sure. That’s all I heard—just that things are running late downstairs. Nobody tells me anything.”
I let her fuss with my hair, my mind racing. A delay could mean anything—a problem with my family, a power play between Novikov and Zaika, or maybe something bigger. Mystomach twists. Am I being saved, or am I just waiting for a worse fate?
The stylist keeps chattering about nothing, but I’m barely listening. My head swims with the possibilities, each one darker than the last.
By the time the stylist is finally done, evening shadows stretch long across the room. She steps back, surveying her handiwork, and I force myself to look at my reflection in the mirror. I barely recognize myself. The bloodred dress clings to me, vivid against my pale skin. Novikov meant this color to mock me, a threat disguised as tradition, but all I see is how striking—almost regal—I look. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me small or broken.
I close my eyes, blocking out the reflection. I try to picture a different wedding—one where I walk down the aisle toward Dog, Reaper, and Bishop, not as a pawn, but as someone wanted, loved, chosen. The image is so sharp and impossible that I almost want to laugh, but I don’t. I just press my palm to my chest, holding that dream tight, even as everything around me threatens to fall apart.
When I finally let myself look out the window, my heart sinks. There are more men than usual outside, some pacing with weapons slung over their shoulders, others clustered in nervous groups. Floodlights glare over the grounds, picking up flashes of movement everywhere I look. The outbuilding next to the estate—the one they’ve converted for the wedding—stands ready, a makeshift altar in the middle of a war zone.
Are they expecting an attack? Has my family already tried something? Is that why Novikov delayed the wedding? My stomach knots. The longer this drags on, the more likely it is that someone will die. Maybe me. Maybe Dog. Maybe everyone.
The stylist says something about final touches, but I barely hear her. I stand by the window in my bloodred dress,searching for any sign—any hope—that this nightmare might end differently.
My nerves are frayed by the time the knock comes. My hands shake, and I almost drop the lipstick as I try to reapply it, desperate to do something, anything, with my restless fingers. The hum of voices outside rises and falls, never quite fading. I can barely swallow past the tightness in my throat. Every footstep in the hall makes me tense. It feels like the walls are closing in, suffocating me with every minute that passes. The door swings open and Novikov’s lieutenant steps in.
He doesn’t even bother to look me in the eye, just gestures for me to follow.
“It’s time,” he says, his voice flat, like this is any other chore. “Everyone’s waiting.”
I gather the skirt of the red dress, careful to keep my head up, my expression as blank as I can manage. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. Down the hall, the lights are too bright, and when we descend the stairs, I see Mikhail Zaika himself waiting at the bottom. He’s dressed impeccably, a slight smile on his lips as he offers his arm.
“I’ll walk you down the aisle,” he announces, as if this is some grand favor.
My jaw clenches. Rage and humiliation burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let the tears fall. I force myself to nod and slip my arm through his, my body rigid with anger.
As we walk, I can’t help it—I look for Dog, straining to hear any sound from him. But there’s nothing. The silence feels like a physical blow, and I can’t keep my voice from trembling as I ask, “Where is he? Where’s Dog?”
Zaika’s smile turns softer, almost paternal, though I know it’s just for show. “Contrary to what you might think of me, Katya, I’m not heartless. He’s alive. He’ll stay that way as long as you do what you’re supposed to do.”
I want to scream, to fight, to claw my way out of this nightmare, but I just press my lips together and look ahead. The doors to the outbuilding stand open, the makeshift aisle bright under the lights, every guest a stranger or an enemy. My hands curl into fists, nails biting my palms.
