Page 10 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

DOG

I sit in the kitchen with a half-empty bottle of cheap-ass whiskey, my bruised pride, and nothing but the hum of the old fridge for company.

Didn’t think it’d go like this.

Didn’t think Reaper would look at me like I’d just pulled a fucking gun on the club.

We’ve argued before— hell , we’ve argued plenty. I get under his skin, he clamps down on mine. That’s the rhythm. That’s how it’s always been. But this? This one cut deeper.

This wasn’t just about protocol or making a mess of optics. This was personal.

And I can’t stop wondering if I made a mistake.

I tilt the bottle to my lips again, then set it down harder than I mean to. It rattles against the counter, like it’s agreeing with me. Loud. Sloppy. Impulsive.

Just like me.

Was she even worth it?

I think about her—about the look on her face when I pulled up, the way she didn’t beg but still looked like she might fall apart if she stood still too long. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just didn’t want to be another bastard who stood by and watched her burn.

Still.

Reaper’s not wrong.

She’s Novikov’s. Or she was. And bringing her here? It might’ve just lit a match under every bridge we ever built with the Bratva.

I lean back in the chair, let my head fall against the wall behind me, and stare at the cracked ceiling paint like it holds answers.

It doesn’t. But I can’t stop thinking about my old man.

My father would’ve called me reckless.

Not that he ever had much time to say shit.

MC royalty, they used to call him—Maddox the Hammer. Old-school. Feared. Respected. Until his own brothers stabbed him in the back, handed him over to the feds when things got messy. He rotted in a cell while they slapped patches on new recruits and pretended loyalty meant something.

I was thirteen when it happened.

Fifteen when Reaper found me fighting three kids twice my size in the back alley of some shithole bar. He pulled me off the last one and looked at me like I was a problem he didn’t have time for.

But he didn’t abandon me.

He taught me to ride. Taught me to fight cleaner. Taught me how to shut the hell up and survive. When I patched in, he said, “You wear this, you bleed for it. You never walk away.”

That meant something to me.

Still does.

Which is why this fight’s got my gut twisted.

I’m still staring at the bottle when I hear a sound—soft footfalls, the creak of the floorboard by the hallway. I look up just as she steps into the kitchen, and for a second, I forget every damn thing I was just chewing over.

Katya.

She looks…different.

Not in a dramatic way. Her clothes are the same, her hair’s still a mess from the wind, but there’s something about her expression—unfocused, like she’s not quite in her body yet. Lips a little swollen. Cheeks flushed. Like she’s been somewhere hot and hasn’t cooled down yet.

Or like she just walked out of someone’s bed.

I blink. And just like that, every thought I had about loyalty, betrayal, the club—gone. Evaporated.

I grin, slow and easy, leaning back in my chair like I haven’t been sulking like a kicked dog for the past half hour. “Well, well,” I say, raising my brows. “Where’ve you been, princess?”

She blinks at me, like she didn’t expect to see anyone here. Like she’s not quite sure if she should answer.

She brushes a loose strand of hair from her face, voice steady even if her eyes aren’t. “Went up to charge my phone,” she says, and her lips twitch like she’s not sure whether to smirk or lie. “Courtesy of Bishop.”

I raise an eyebrow, slow. I don’t miss the way she says his name. Or how she’s not quite looking at me.

“Where’s he now anyway?” she asks casually, too casually.

I shrug, keeping it easy. “No idea.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either.

She lingers in the doorway, and for a second I think she might bolt. But then I tilt my head toward the table and pat the chair beside me.

“Why don’t you come in?” I say, softer this time. “Unless you’re sick of testosterone and bad lighting.”

That earns me a hint of a smile. She walks in without a word, hips swaying just enough to remind me she knows how to move when she wants someone to look.

I don’t even try to hide it.

I stand, walk to the fridge, crack it open. “Beer?”

She nods. “Sure.”

I grab two, pop the tops, and hand her one. She takes it with that same queenlike air, like even in borrowed leather and post-apocalypse tension, she’s somehow above the mess.

But I watch her. I always do. And I catch the way her fingers flex tighter around the bottle when they brush mine. She’s not nearly as calm as she wants me to believe.

We sit, not quite across from each other. Just enough space for the tension to stretch between us without snapping.

She takes a sip, then exhales. “Reaper doesn’t like me.”

I snort. “Reaper doesn’t like anyone.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But he especially doesn’t like me.”

I can’t argue. Not really. So I take a long sip from my bottle, buy myself a second, then say, “He’ll come around.”

Even I don’t believe it.

And from the look on her face, neither does she.

“Okay,” I say, tapping the neck of the bottle against the edge of the table. “Maybe not. But eventually he’ll have to stop treating you like a walking land mine.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Am I not?”

I smirk, even though the question hits a little deeper than it should. “Sure. But we’re the Ravagers. We like things that explode.”

That earns me a small smile, the first real one since she walked in, and it makes something loosen just a bit in my chest. Only a little, but enough that I can breathe again.

For now.

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, beer resting lightly in her fingers. “He looked like he wanted to kill you.”

“Yeah,” I say, lips twitching around a bitter edge. “Wasn’t my best night.”

“Because of me?”

I look at her.

She doesn’t say it like someone fishing for guilt or validation. She says it like someone who’s used to people blaming her. Like she expects the answer to be yes.

I shake my head slowly. “Because of everything. You were just the match. But this fire’s been burning a while.”

Her eyes flick toward the door, like she’s listening for footsteps or shouting, or maybe just the echo of her own name being dragged through the dirt.

Then, quieter: “I didn’t ask to be here.”

“You’re not unwanted,” I say, leaning forward a little, resting my elbows on the table. “Just…complicated.”

She smiles at that—small, but real. “That’s one word for it.”

I shrug. “Could’ve used a few others. Dangerous. Reckless. Bad idea wrapped in better curves.”

That gets a laugh out of her, quiet and short, but it warms the space between us. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing in mock challenge. “And yet you’re still here. Still talking to me.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, grinning, “I’ve never been real good at steering clear of danger.”

She watches me for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide if I’m flirting or confessing something more. Truth is, I’m not even sure myself. The longer I’m around her, the fuzzier the lines get.

She hugs herself, arms wrapped tight like she’s holding her own pieces together.

“I need to find somewhere to crash tonight,” she says quietly, not looking at me.

“You’ll stay here,” I say without hesitation.

She shakes her head, quick and dismissive. “Reaper will never allow it. I think you forget—he doesn’t want me here.”

“No,” I say, leaning back in my chair, watching her carefully. “That’s not it.”

She turns her head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Your fiancé has been pulling our strings,” I say. “Holding leverage over some…merchandise.”

The word tastes like rust.

She stiffens. Her jaw goes tight. Then she crosses the kitchen in three fast steps, slams the handle of the sink down, and spits into it like the truth burned her mouth.

“Pig.”

“I thought you said he was an asshole,” I offer, voice light, teasing.

“Don’t,” she snaps.

Her voice cuts, sharp as a blade. I shut up instantly.

She stands there, staring down at the basin, shoulders high and tense like a storm she can’t hold back anymore.

“It’s bad enough my family thought it was a good idea to send me to him,” she mutters. “Like he was some fucking solution.”

She moves to the table in the center of the room, braces herself against it like she might collapse if she doesn’t lean on something solid. Her head drops forward. And for the first time since I picked her up, she actually looks…lost.

I can’t stand seeing it.

Before I even think about it, I move across the room and slip an arm around her waist, pulling her gently into me.

She doesn’t fight it.

Doesn’t flinch.

Just stands there, stiff for a second…and then melts into my side.

“I can’t even imagine,” I say, my voice quieter now. Honest.

She leans into me, and I press my lips softly to her neck, just beneath her ear.

She doesn’t pull away when I kiss her neck again—she leans into it, just a little, just enough to tell me she needs this.

So I kiss her again, slower this time. Right beneath her ear. Then lower.

Her breath catches, soft and shaky, and I feel it against my chest. Her body relaxes into mine like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

And then she turns in my arms, eyes shining with something fierce and fragile all at once. Before I can say anything—before I can think—her hands slide up my chest, and her mouth finds mine.

The kiss is soft at first. Testing. But the second I respond—pressing my lips to hers, angling my head to deepen it—she sighs into me like she’s been holding that breath for hours.

I slide my hands down her sides, over the curve of her waist, pulling her closer, needing to feel every inch of her against me.

She gasps softly, just enough to let me know she wants more.

Her fingers knot in the front of my shirt, tugging slightly, and that sound—God, that sound—is going to burn itself into my memory.

She moans again, a soft, breathy thing that hits me square in the chest and coils low in my gut.