Page 12 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

I wake slowly, blinking against the soft light slipping in through the half-drawn blinds.

The air smells like leather, old whiskey, and something warm and unmistakably male. I stretch, just a little, and wince as the dull ache between my thighs reminds me exactly where I am—and what I did.

Dog’s room.

It’s smaller than Bishop’s. Less clinical.

The walls are scuffed, a few posters peeling at the corners—vintage bikes, girls in denim shorts, a faded Ravagers patch pinned crooked above the dresser.

His boots lie kicked off by the door. There’s a half-finished bottle of something cheap on the nightstand and a shirt draped over the back of a chair like he just yanked it off without thinking.

Lived-in. Wild. Chaotic.

Just like him.

I sit up slowly, the sheet falling around my waist, and press my hand to my chest to still the pulse hammering there.

First Bishop.

Then Dog.

God.

What the hell am I doing?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, letting it all catch up to me. The heat, the hunger, the way they both touched something I haven’t let anyone near in years.

I tell myself it was strategy. I needed allies. Protection.

But the way Dog looked at me last night…the way Bishop kissed me like I was the first thing in his life he didn’t want to control…

It wasn’t just about survival.

I felt it. Passion. Real, bone-deep, terrifying passion—in different ways. Bishop was restraint finally shattered. Dog was chaos wrapped in devotion.

I drop my face into my hands, elbows on my knees, heart pounding.

What does that make me?

I grew up knowing better. In my world, a woman who moves from one man’s arms to another’s in the same breath is called a whore. No matter the reason.

And here I am.

I shake my head hard, as if I can throw the thought off like water.

I’m not a whore. I’m not. I’m just…trying to survive.

But even that excuse feels too thin this morning. Because last night wasn’t about Novikov.

It wasn’t even about staying alive. It was about forgetting. About feeling. About someone seeing me—and still wanting me.

I run a hand over the sheets beside me, trying to feel for warmth, but it’s long gone.

For a second, I wonder if he even slept next to me at all.

Did he hold me after? Or did I just pass out like some trembling mess in his bed while he slipped off to wherever men like him go when the fire burns out?

I bite my bottom lip, face heating as last night’s memories creep in—his mouth on me, his voice low and filthy in my ear, the way he made me come apart like I had no control over my body at all.

God.

I shake my head and pull the sheet tighter around myself for a moment.

This was supposed to be survival. Strategy.

Not whatever… that was.

I rise, gather my clothes from where they’re strewn across the room, and dress quickly, quietly, trying not to think about how my legs are still a little shaky. I step out into the hall barefoot, Dog’s door clicking shut behind me, and make my way toward the main room.

The clubhouse is quiet, still lingering in that strange post-night haze. Some light filters in through the blinds. I expect clutter, mess, the aftermath of whatever madness normally happens here—but it’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

My bare feet pad softly across the worn hardwood as I wander, looking at the wall I hadn’t noticed before.

Photos. Dozens of them, some old, some newer, tucked into mismatched frames. People smiling, laughing, drinking, hugging. There’s a story in every one of them.

And then I see him.

Reaper.

Not the man I met yesterday—the one with the dead-eyed stare and a voice that sounds like a loaded gun. But younger . Softer.

A teenage Reaper grinning at a backyard barbecue, arm slung around a woman who must be his mother—same sharp eyes, same serious mouth.

Another shot shows him crouched down, a big, floppy-eared dog licking his face while he laughs, carefree and unguarded.

There’s even one where he’s standing between two adults—a man and woman who look proud and happy—with a birthday cake in front of him and fireflies glowing in the dusk behind them.

This clubhouse…wasn’t always just an outlaw den.

It was someone’s home.

His home.

Something happened here. Or maybe after. Something carved out that boy’s heart and replaced it with silence and steel.

And I get it.

Because I’ve seen it too. Felt it. I was raised in the kind of world where mothers don’t always get to kiss you goodbye, and fathers die with unfinished business in their pockets.

My parents were taken by Bratva violence. A car bomb meant for someone else.

They were there. Wrong place. Wrong time.

And now I’m standing in someone else’s history, feeling it in the walls, in the photos, in the ghost of a boy who used to smile.

Reaper’s not just cold. He’s broken.

Just like me.

I’m about to turn back toward the kitchen when voices rise down the hallway—angry, unmistakable. I follow the sound on instinct, keeping close to the wall, bare feet silent on the floorboards. As I round the corner, I stop just before the doorway, out of sight but close enough to hear every word.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Reaper’s voice growls, low and deadly. “You’re telling me now that she was here the whole night?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dog’s voice, casual and smug. “Technically, it wasn’t a lie. You didn’t ask the right question.”

A rush of heat floods my cheeks, but I can’t stop the small, involuntary smile that tugs at my mouth. I press my hand to my lips just to hide it.

I hear Bishop sigh—low and tired, like he’s watching a slow-motion train wreck and refusing to get involved.

“I asked you where she was,” Reaper snaps, his voice rising now, raw with fury. “And you?—”

“I told you she wasn’t a problem,” Dog cuts in smoothly. “And she wasn’t. Trust me, I had everything under control.”

Reaper’s response is a sharp exhale. I imagine his jaw grinding, fists clenched, maybe pacing like a tiger.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, low and furious.

“And you’re predictable,” Dog fires back. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d do this—blow the roof off. Heck, you didn’t even ask if she was okay.”

I press a hand over my mouth to stifle it, eyes wide. He’s infuriating. Absolutely reckless. And somehow…stupidly funny.

Inside the room, Reaper’s silence stretches just a beat too long.

“Keep pushing me,” he says, voice like gravel.

“You don’t need any help with that,” Dog replies easily.

Bishop finally speaks up—low and even. “Both of you need to shut the fuck up.”

There’s a tense pause, boots shifting on the floor, the scrape of something dragged out of the way. I lean back slightly, heart pounding.

They’re fighting over me.

And I don’t know whether to feel powerful…or terrified.

I know I have to do some damage control. The tension rolling down the hallway is thick enough to choke on, and I have no doubt I’m the reason for at least eighty percent of it. Maybe ninety.

I take a deep breath, straighten my shirt, and swipe my fingers under my eyes—just in case I look like I tumbled out of someone’s bed. Which, of course, I did.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and paste on the kind of smile that used to get me out of trouble when I was sixteen and already smarter than the men trying to trap me.

Game face on. Time to remind them that I’m not just the problem—I can be the solution too.

I knock lightly on the open doorframe—just enough to break the standoff without appearing like I was eavesdropping, even though I definitely was—and step in like I belong there.

“Good morning, guys,” I say brightly, like this isn’t a powder keg and I’m not the lit match.

Three sets of eyes snap to me.

Dog’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, looking smug as hell. He lifts his brows at me like you had to pick now? but there’s amusement behind his eyes.

Bishop is seated, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight—watching me the way a sniper watches a target. Cool, unreadable, calculating.

And Reaper?

Reaper looks like someone just offered him a shot of bleach.

The muscle in his jaw twitches once. Hard.

I keep smiling. Big. Sweet. Just this side of smug.

Reaper doesn’t waste a second. “Were you eavesdropping?”

I don’t blink. I meet his eyes, tilt my head slightly, and smile like it’s a ridiculous question.

“I was walking back from the main room and heard shouting,” I say smoothly. “Forgive me for being curious when three men start arguing loud enough to shake the floorboards.”

Dog chuckles behind me.

Reaper stares at me like he’s waiting for me to slip, to twitch, to show even one crack in my game. But I’ve played with men who would slit your throat for blinking wrong. I can handle a pissed-off MC president.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, inhale slowly, then let the smile fall from my face. “Look,” I say, voice leveling out. “You don’t like me. That’s fine. But we don’t have time to waste playing dominant wolf versus disobedient houseguest.”

Reaper’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t speak. I take that as permission to keep going.

I fold my arms across my chest, casual, confident—even though my insides are chewing through themselves.

They’ll start arriving soon. My aunts, my cousins, their husbands and children—all dressed for a wedding they think is a peace treaty. A celebration. A fresh start.

And they’re walking straight into a massacre.

I have hours, if that. Maybe less.

But I can’t tell the bikers that. Not yet. They don’t trust me. And if I push too hard, too soon, they’ll shut me out completely.

So I play it like it’s strategy. Like I’m cool. Like this is all beneath me.

“I came to say thank you,” I say lightly, letting my eyes drift between them. “For not throwing me out. For the hospitality.”

Reaper still hasn’t moved. “This isn’t a hotel.”

“Noted,” I reply, all silk and sugar.

I take a step deeper into the room, and when none of them stop me, I keep going.

“I need to go back,” I say finally, eyes landing on Reaper. “Not to stay. Just…long enough to see someone. Get something.”

Reaper’s brows lift. “Back to Novikov?”

“No,” I say. “To my family. They’ll be there soon. I need to talk to them before?—”

I catch myself.

Before they die.

I take a slow breath. Reframe. “Before they get pulled into something they don’t understand.”

Reaper doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

I blink, unsure I heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not there by choice,” he says, tone sharp as a scalpel. “You ran. And if we hand you back to your family, Novikov’s going to lose his mind. There’s more at play here than your bridal jitters.”

Oh, he’s good.

Really good.

I suck in a quiet breath, letting the silence settle while I scramble behind my smile. “They’ll reward you handsomely,” I say, lips curved just enough, voice light.

Reaper doesn’t blink. “We don’t need your money.”

Of course not. I should’ve known.

Beside him, Bishop folds his arms. “Returning her to Novikov might be the safest play for us right now,” he says coolly, like it’s just a matter of business. No acknowledgment of what happened last night. No recognition in his eyes, no flicker of guilt.

I want to scream.

Seriously? After last night?

After you had me moaning into your mouth and shaking in your bed?

But I clamp down on the urge, hard. This isn’t the time. I can’t show my hand, not yet.

Reaper, though…Reaper’s eyes are calculating, his mind clearly two steps ahead of the rest of us. I can see it in the way his expression shifts—like a puzzle piece just clicked into place.

“No,” he says slowly, voice cool and measured. “We’re not taking her back to Novikov’s.”

Relief hits me—and then he finishes his thought.

“We’re ransoming her.”

“What?” I snap, the word flying out before I can stop it.

He leans forward, resting his hands on the table. “You’re leverage. Novikov owes us money. With the wedding hours away and no bride to show for it, he’ll have no choice but to pay up if he wants to avoid a full-blown scandal.”

It takes a second for the words to settle. And when they do, it’s like the floor shifts under me.

So that’s it.

I’ve just traded one cage for another.

First my family sells me off like livestock, and now I’m a bargaining chip between criminals who don’t even know me. One man wants to parade me down the aisle in front of his enemies. The other wants to use me as collateral to get paid.

This is war. And I’m the spoils.

But they’re not the only ones who know how to play dirty.