Page 83 of Sexting the Bikers
I walk stiffly beside Zaika, the oppressive heat of all those eyes on me pressing in on every side. My breath hitches and I try to keep my voice casual, my heart pounding so hard I can barely speak.
“What about my family?” I ask quietly, hoping it sounds like idle curiosity.
Zaika gives me a sidelong glance, his mouth twisting with amusement. “Your family? They’re here, but they’d be fools to try anything tonight.” He gestures toward the armed men scattered around the estate, every angle covered. “Novikov wanted a show of force. No one’s getting through that perimeter without starting a war. Believe me, they know it.”
I swallow hard, my gaze sweeping the crowd. Even if my family wanted to save me, there’s nothing they could do. I see it now—this isn’t just a wedding. It’s a trap, and I’m the bait, pinned in place by Zaika’s iron grip and Novikov’s ruthless ambition.
Any last hope that someone might come for me drains away. For the first time, I realize just how alone I truly am. My only way out is through.
I force my chin up as we move down the aisle, Zaika’s arm heavy against mine. Novikov’s men stand at attention along the walls and in the corners, their faces set and blank, their eyes trained on me with suspicion. Any hope of escape evaporates under their cold scrutiny. I don’t bother searching for a gap or weakness; that kind of naïveté is gone.
But I’m not thinking about running. Not anymore. I’m thinking about what I’ll do when the chance finally comes. Icount every one of these men as an enemy, and I let the resentment settle deep in my chest, cold and clear. I burn with hatred—not just for Novikov, or Zaika, but for my own family. I catch sight of a few familiar faces on the other side of the aisle, my uncle, a cousin, even my aunt. Their eyes slide away from mine. They will sit and watch as I’m sold off, as if I’m nothing but leverage in a bloody game.
Something hardens inside me. If no one is coming for me—if every person here sees me as a pawn, a prize, or a threat—then I won’t just survive this. I’ll make someone pay for it. Someone is going to bleed for this, I vow, feeling the edges of my fear sharpen into something far more dangerous. I walk a little taller, letting the anger fuel each step. Let them think they’ve won. This is not over. Not for me.
The outbuilding has been transformed, at least on the surface. White folding chairs line both sides of the aisle, draped in cheap gold fabric and fake roses. The space is packed, every chair filled—men in ill-fitting suits, women with wary eyes, a scattering of distant relatives I haven’t seen in years, all of them turning to watch me as I enter. The ceiling is strung with yellow bulbs, their light garish and unflattering, bouncing off the stained walls. There’s no altar, just a battered table at the front where Novikov stands waiting, arms folded, mouth twisted in a thin smile.
As Zaika leads me forward, an old stereo in the corner starts to play something that’s supposed to sound grand—strings and a waltz, maybe—but the music skips, tinny and out of tune. Each note is a mockery. The guests rise, a wave of attention rolling over me, their faces hungry, curious, or simply bored. No one meets my eyes for long.
Inside, I feel like I’m splintering. My heart beats so hard I think I might faint, but there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I feel every bruise, every hurt. Shame burns in my cheeks, butI push it down with fury. My mind is a blur of panic and bitter clarity—this is a spectacle, a message, a warning to anyone who’d dare defy these men. I am the prize, and they’re all here to watch me be claimed.
The red dress swishes around my ankles as I move, each step heavier than the last. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to walk straight, to keep my chin high. Rage is the only thing keeping me upright now. Each face is a reminder of how alone I am, but also how much I want to make them all regret this day.
I’m not afraid anymore. I’m furious, and it keeps me moving as the music swells and I approach the man who’s taken everything from me.
When I finally reach the battered table at the front, Novikov steps forward to meet me, his expression smooth and smug. He takes my hand in his, his grip crushing, his palm cold and dry. He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear, and I have to fight the urge to jerk away.
“We have your aunt,” he whispers, his words low and poisonous. “So don’t let your family get any ideas. If anyone tries anything, she pays the price.”
My gaze snaps up to his, my fury battling with a sudden spike of terror. He smiles at me, lips curled in satisfaction, knowing exactly how powerless I am. My skin crawls at his touch, bile rising in my throat.
I want to wrench my hand away, but I force myself to stand still. My aunt’s life hangs on every move I make. So I hold his stare, refusing to look afraid, and hope that someone—anyone—sees just how much I hate him for this.
The sight of Novikov alone is enough to make my stomach twist, but what truly shatters me is seeing my family gathered in the front row—my uncle, my aunts, and to my shock, even Alexy. He stands rigid, his eyes locked on some distant point behind me, refusing to look at me at all. My breath stutters in my chest.Of all people, I thought Alexy would at least try. But he stands there, hands clenched at his sides, and I realize he’s as trapped as I am, or maybe just too afraid.
Novikov has played his hand well. By bringing my family here, by making them witnesses instead of rescuers, he’s made it clear that nobody will dare defy him. My last hope crumbles. I was clinging to this tiny fantasy that, in the chaos of a rescue attempt, I could disappear—slip away in the confusion and be free. But there is no chaos. Only suffocating silence.
I scan the room again, searching desperately for my aunt Lianne, but she’s not there. My gut churns with dread. Novikov’s threat wasn’t empty. He’s holding her somewhere, just out of sight, an invisible chain keeping the rest of us in line.
The guests murmur around us, their voices a soft buzz of admiration at the spectacle unfolding before them. It’s everything Novikov intended—a perfect display of Bratva unity, a show of power and control, every eye fixed on us as if we are both the celebration and the warning.
But as I stand with Novikov’s hand crushing mine and my family watching in silence, I don’t see unity. I see the walls of a cage closing in, tighter with every word spoken, every approving nod, every face turned my way. This isn’t strength or family. It’s a prison built out of fear, and I’m trapped right at its heart.
The officiant begins to speak, his voice echoing through the tense hush, but the words are nothing but a drone in my head. They flow over me like water, blurred by the blood pounding in my ears. I can’t focus, not on the ceremony, not on the faces staring at me, not on the hand gripping mine. Everything narrows to the sick twist in my gut, the awareness that in just a few moments, I’ll sign away the last shreds of myself. I will belong to Novikov, and everyone here will pretend it was my choice. I keep my gaze steady, swallowing the taste of fear andbile as I try to find something—anything—to hold on to. But all I can feel is the hopelessness sinking in.
I stare at the officiant’s mouth as he reads the vows. I know I’m supposed to repeat them, but I can barely make sense of the syllables. My fingers tremble, my lips press together, and I wonder if I’ll be able to speak at all when the time comes. The red dress clings to my skin, hot and heavy, and the ring Novikov is holding out gleams like a threat. He squeezes my hand just a little tighter, as if daring me to flinch, and I realize how close I am to losing everything. My soul. My hope. Myself.
Then, just as the officiant’s voice rises, asking me to accept my fate, the ground beneath us begins to tremble. At first, I think it’s just my heart, hammering with dread, but the vibration grows. The glasses on the table begin to rattle. A low, guttural rumble sweeps over the crowd, so deep it thrums through my bones. The officiant falters, glancing up in confusion. Guests turn in their seats, murmuring, anxious, some half rising as if bracing for an earthquake.
The sound builds—first a distant roar, then a thunderous cascade, overwhelming every other noise, every voice, every carefully constructed illusion of control. The earth shakes beneath our feet, windows shudder in their frames, and then, like a tidal wave cresting over everything, the engines erupt. Motorcycles. Dozens of them. Their exhausts snarl and spit, tires screeching as they burst onto the estate in a riot of chrome and leather and chaos. I see the gate crumple under the weight of the first bikes, riders pouring through like a wave, scattering Novikov’s men as they race across the perfect green lawn.
Engines scream as the Ravagers make their entrance, black and wild, tearing up the grass, the scent of gasoline and rebellion filling the air. They come in a horde—every patched member, every prospect, every friend, a living wall of noise and fury. Their colors flash under the spotlights, their faces grim anddetermined, a force that looks more animal than human. I see Reaper at the front, his bike roaring, his eyes fixed on the altar.
Novikov’s men reach for their guns, but they’re slow, caught off guard by the violence of the invasion. My family stands frozen, eyes wide, caught between awe and terror. I stand there in my bloodred dress, stunned, as the Ravagers cut through the crowd, engines howling, a fury unleashed.
For the first time since this nightmare began, hope ignites in my chest. The Ravagers have come for me. I am not alone.
Not anymore.
