Page 85 of Sexting the Bikers
I jerk my chin at Dog’s captors. “Let him go.” They share a glance, then shove him forward. He stumbles, catches his balance, and limps the remaining steps until he reaches the circle of bikes. Rooster hops off his ride to haul Dog behind our line, Twitch already moving in with gauze and a bottle of water.
The air is thick enough to choke on. Novikov’s smirk falters as he realizes the tables have turned. Zaika’s posture stiffens, weighing the odds.
I look Dog over. “Tell me why I should save your raggedy ass.”
Dog coughs, then grins. “I’m one hell of a security man?” He pushes himself up, swaying a little but keeping the grin that’s always rubbed people the wrong way—just enough swagger to make you forget he’s bleeding.
Novikov shifts like he’s tasted something bitter. Katya’s still boxed in by his men, red dress rippling in the night breeze, arms held behind her back with the rough grip of the men. Her chin is high—brave, reckless, and so damned beautiful it scrapes something raw inside my chest.
I lift a brow at Novikov. “Pretty decent trade so far. But you’re still holding royal treasure that belongs to me.”
Katya’s eyes flick to the trees crowding the estate, where Bishop’s position should be invisible, yet Novikov’s men keep glancing that way, twitching whenever a far-off neon sign stutters. Good. Let them believe the ghost in the dark can pick them off whenever he likes.
Novikov opens his mouth—calculated condescension—but I cut him off, turning slightly to address the Pakhan. “You seem to be the more reasonable one, if I’m not wrong. Bishop’s dotis sitting on that pretty face of yours, and my patience, in case you’ve forgotten, is on life support tonight.”
A muscle jumps along Mikhail’s jaw; his finger eases away from the trigger guard. Good bunny.
I swing off the bike, boots thudding on cracked asphalt, and the world narrows to the slice of space between Katya and me. Novikov’s goons still bracket her, thick hands clutching her elbows, but her chin is tilted like she owns the night.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask her. My voice comes out low, a rumble that starts somewhere near my spine. The knife spins once between my fingers, catching the broken floodlight’s twitching glare.
“Getting married,” she answers, mouth curling into a smile that’s half-sweet, half-suicidal.
A laugh I don’t feel slips past my teeth. “Yeah, no.” I pace forward while the muzzle of Mikhail’s pistol tracks me. Doesn’t matter. My eyes stay locked on hers. “Did you get my permission for that little life choice?”
Her lashes sweep down, then up. “No, Reaper.”
“Thought so.” The knife stops spinning; I point the tip at Novikov. “I’m feeling generous. Let the bride come over here and nobody loses an eye tonight.”
Katya arches a brow, daring me. “You telling me I need your blessing to walk down the aisle?”
“I’m telling you nobody walks anywhere unless I say so.” I grin, slow and deliberate. “Besides, we both know you prefer black leather to white lace.”
That gets the faintest flush at her throat. Novikov notices and sneers; I file that away for later punishment.
Katya rolls her shoulders against the men holding her. “You planning to crash every engagement I accept?”
“Only the ones that don’t involve me.” I shift my weight, letting the knife’s edge gleam. “Come here, princess. Time to run away from your own damn wedding.”
She bites her lip—pink against the harsh lights—then flicks her gaze to Novikov. “He never did learn etiquette,” she sighs.
“Etiquette is for people who can’t shoot straight,” I tell her, stepping closer. Two yards now.
Novikov jerks, hand half-raised like he might yank Katya back, but Bishop’s report cracks across the yard again and a fragment of concrete kisses his cheek. He freezes, swallowing whatever threat he meant to spit. I don’t even glance at the rooftop; I just let the echo roll through the dark while I keep my gaze on Katya, palm open, inviting, inevitable.
“That’s still Bishop,” I say, voice barely more than smoke. “And trust me, big man—his next shot finds a home.”
Novikov’s boots don’t move, yet the fear behind his eyes scurries for cover. The goons at Katya’s elbows falter, grip loosening the way ice thaws under a torch. She exhales, a single measured breath, and then she glides forward, silk against storm-torn steel, slipping past the slack arms that seconds ago held her hostage. When her fingers slide into mine the contact is white-hot, a live wire straight to the chest, and the world tilts until all I taste is citrus soap and adrenaline.
The crew behind me murmurs approval. Somewhere to the left, the rip of a slide being racked whispers that our perimeter remains ironclad. None of it matters. Katya is here, pulse thrumming beneath my thumb, eyes reflecting the ruined lights and something softer beneath the fight.
“You always did know how to make an entrance,” I breathe, curling my hand to anchor hers.
She tips her head, a rogue strand of hair brushing her cheek. “Figured I’d leave before the vows. Didn’t like the décor.”
“I’ll redecorate,” I promise, letting the knife in my other hand spin in a lazy circle that keeps every barrel pointed anywhere but at her. “Starting with their color scheme.”
“Reaper,” she chides, though amusement shimmers in her voice, “we talked about impulse control.”
