Page 96 of Sexting the Bikers
“What is all this?” I ask, half laughing, half exasperated. “I still don’t get it.”
Reaper glances back at me with that lazy confidence, holding the door with his boot until I’m inside. “Now, darling, you don’t really expect me to live here and keep law enforcement off my back if we’re shooting up people every week. That’s just bad business.”
He grabs a bottle of water off the counter and tosses it to Dog, who almost drops it with his bruised hands. “No. I just needed to get them off my land, put on a show of force, and make them think the threat of arrest was real. That’s usually enough. They folded because it was their only way out.”
I fold my arms, giving them both a skeptical look. “I’m still not sure how you all managed to pull this off.”
Bishop shrugs, not the least bit bothered. “I told you—we don’t play by the rules. Sometimes we use our heads instead of our fists. Surprises everyone.”
Reaper winks, his tone warm and teasing. “That’s how we’ve stayed out of jail this long. And why the steak always tastes better after a good scare. Not everything has to end in a bloodbath.”
Dog flops onto the sofa, grinning. “Speak for yourself. I’m still voting for at least a small bloodbath next time.”
Reaper squeezes my hand and winks. “You’ll get used to us. Or you’ll be the only sane one left, which isn’t a bad gig either.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my mouth. Somehow, their chaos is making a kind of sense to me. Maybe there’s no rulebook for any of this. Maybe that’s exactly why I feel like I finally belong.
Donella comes out of the back room, needle threaded, scissors in hand, and a leather cut draped over her arm. She’s got a look on her face like she’s seen it all, and maybe she has. She holds up the cut for everyone to see, the back still blank below the club’s colors. “Alright,” she says, her voice carrying over the noise. “Whose name do I put on this one?”
I blink, surprised.
“Mine vote is Dog,” Dog pipes up, sitting on the arm of the couch with a mock-serious frown, like he’s ready to argue his case in court. “It’s only fair. I found her first. And I got the most bruises tonight.”
Bishop leans back, feet propped up on the coffee table, cleaning his nails with a toothpick. “I’m thinking it ought to be Bishop. I mean, I did keep you alive with some of the finest sniper work in the county.”
Reaper rolls his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. “You two are delusional. It’s mine or nothing.”
Donella just laughs, holding up the patch, ready to sew. “Maybe you should ask Katya. It’s her choice.”
I stare at the cut, heart pounding a little. “What is that, exactly?” I ask, half suspecting a joke.
“Your cut,” Donella says simply, her eyes kind. “Unless you don’t want it.”
I glance at the leather, then at the three men in front of me, the ones who turned my world upside down. The ones who risked everything, who stood beside me, fought for me, made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how.
I think when I came down with them earlier, Donella saw the question in my heart, and wanted to help me make a decision.
I stand there, heart pounding, staring at the cut. I know what it means—this isn’t just a jacket or a trophy. It’s the symbol of belonging, a sign that I’m not just passing through, not just a woman to be fought over or protected or traded.
In Moscow, all I ever wore was expectation and secrecy. I was never allowed to claim anything as my own, never invited to belong anywhere except as someone else’s secret. Here, in this room, this leather means family. It means a home I can wear on my back. It means protection, trust, and a hundred small, everyday loyalties, people who’ll come when I call, and a place to return to when I’m lost.
But most importantly, if I take it, it means I become their girl. I belong to them.
Do I want this? The question feels bigger than it sounds, stretching out across every day and night I survived on my own. I look at Dog, grinning with a split lip, still bruised but never backing down. Bishop, so calm and cool, but always watching, always protecting. And Reaper—my Reaper—with that wild, stubborn spark in his eyes, the man who never once let me face anything alone since he stepped into my life.
I could never pick just one of them, not really. I don’t want to.
So I smile, slow and sure. “Put all three,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Unless you don’t want me.”
There’s a beat of silence, until Dog whistles, loud and proud.
“Well, this is an interesting development,” Bishop says, sounding more amused than shocked.
“Very interesting,” Dog echoes, leaning over to nudge Bishop in the ribs, and then winces at the pain.
Reaper raises an eyebrow, trying to act unbothered but failing. “You can’t pick just one of us?” he asks, though there’s a teasing glint in his eye.
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere honest and deep. “Now, why would I want to do that?”
