Page 13 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

REAPER

I hate complications.

Especially when they come in the form of a sharp-tongued girl with a killer body and too many secrets.

I’m already dialing the burner before she finishes her protest.

“No,” Katya says, voice rising. “You can’t?—”

“Keep her quiet,” I snap, turning away as the line begins to ring. I hear Bishop move in, murmuring something low, probably putting a hand on her arm. She’s pacing now, I can feel the fury coming off her in waves. But she’s not our concern anymore—not until Novikov pays what he owes.

I dial the number from memory—the one Novikov’s lieutenant gave us months ago, back when we were still pretending this alliance had a future.

He answers on the second ring. “This better be good,” he growls.

“We’ve got something of yours,” I say evenly. “Or someone.”

A pause.

Then, “Speak.”

I glance over my shoulder. Dog is holding Katya gently but firmly, whispering something into her hair while she tries not to panic. Bishop is still by the table, arms crossed, jaw ticking. He doesn’t like this any more than I do—but we’re past like and don’t-like now. We’re in need-to-do territory.

“Tell Novikov his bride’s with us,” I say. “She’s safe—for now. You want her back, he pays what he owes. Cash. All of it.”

Another pause. No breathing on the line. Just that dead, eerie silence that tells me I’ve got their attention.

“I’ll tell him,” the voice says, and then the line goes dead.

I turn to leave, but her voice stops me cold.

“You don’t understand what you just did,” Katya says.

She’s standing straighter now, shoulders squared, chin up like she’s daring me to ask what she means. And for a second, I almost do.

But I’ve seen that look before—on men who thought they had leverage. Thought they could play me. Thought they were smarter than they were.

I fold my arms across my chest and lean back just enough to study her.

“No,” I say, flat and hard. “What you don’t understand is that you’re a liability. And the sooner we get rid of you, the better it is for everyone in this room.”

That gets a reaction out of Dog. His eyes flash, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself back from stepping in again. I shoot him a look that says don’t .

Katya doesn’t blink. She’s not scared—she’s pissed. There’s something brewing behind those dark eyes, something dangerous. But I’ve dealt with worse.

“You just painted a target on this whole clubhouse,” she snaps. “You’re too stupid and too proud to see that.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe because I know there’s a sliver of truth buried in the insult.

But I don’t let it show.

I walk up to her—slow, deliberate—and grab her arm hard enough to make my point but not enough to bruise. Her eyes meet mine, dark and unflinching.

“Nobody talks to me like that,” I growl. “Not even you.”

She doesn’t flinch. Hell, she doesn’t even blink. Most people back down when they see what I’m capable of. Not Katya.

“I know what he is,” she says. “Novikov. He slaughtered my aunt’s family too. Don’t tell me what he won’t do. You haven’t seen what he’s capable of.”

The words slam into me. She’s not bluffing. I can see it—etched into her face, sitting heavy in her voice. She’s not just scared. She’s haunted.

And for the first time, I hesitate.

Is it possible? Would Novikov be reckless enough to hit our clubhouse? The man’s dangerous, no doubt. But suicidal?

My grip loosens on her arm, just slightly. Enough to let the thought in.

Would he really risk war with us?

I glance toward Bishop, who’s watching closely, expression unreadable. Dog’s pacing in the corner like a caged animal.

Katya steps back, breathing hard. Her chest is rising and falling fast, eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t underestimate him,” she says, softer now. “He doesn’t care about consequences. He only cares about control. And you just told him you took something that belongs to him.”

I don’t answer.

I jerk my chin at Bishop. “Come with me.”

Dog opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a glare. “You stay here. Keep an eye on her.”

Katya watches me go, her eyes burning a hole in my back. I can feel it, that defiant little spark. God, she gets under my skin.

Bishop falls in beside me as we head down the hallway toward the war room. The walls here are lined with old photographs—club runs, parties, faces that aren’t with us anymore. I don’t look at them. I don’t want to think about what’s at stake.

Bishop’s the first to break the silence. “You’re actually considering what she said?”

I stop, look him dead in the eye. “And you aren’t?”

He says nothing. Just gives me that cool, measured stare.

We settle in the war room, door shut, blinds half-closed. The burner phone sits in the center of the table like a live grenade. I keep glancing at it, waiting for the damn thing to ring, waiting for Novikov to bite. It’s been half an hour. Not a word.

Silence. Not his style.

And now I can hear Katya’s voice in my head— You just painted a target on this whole clubhouse. I grit my teeth. The memory of her laughing at me, that bitter edge of smugness, pisses me off more than I’d like to admit.

I slam my fist against the desk. The phone jumps, but still doesn’t ring. My pulse hammers in my ears.

“They wouldn’t dare,” I mutter, more to myself than to Bishop.

But he’s already thinking it through. “Reap, what if they’ve scouted us as well as we’ve scouted them?”

I glare at him, but he’s right and I know it. Paranoia creeps in, cold and slippery.

“Call in the members. And the prospects. All of them,” I say, voice tight. “We’re not taking chances.”

Bishop frowns. “A lot of them are at their day jobs. You want me to?—”

“Screw that,” I snap. “Tell them to take a sick day, crash a damn funeral, I don’t care. It’s all hands on deck.”

He nods and pulls out his phone, starting to text. I watch him, jaw tight, nerves fraying. I glance out the window, every shadow on the street looking a little too long.

Phones buzz and ring across the table, Bishop firing off terse instructions—his voice clipped and calm, all business. “Yeah. Need you here, now. Don’t care if you’re on shift, drop it. It’s urgent.” He hangs up, dials the next. I hit up Rooster, Twitch, even Danny the damn prospect.

I’m talking to Gage, our sergeant-at-arms. “No, this isn’t a drill. I want every bike out front and every weapon on the table, understood? You see anything weird, you call me first. No hero shit.”

I hang up, jaw tight, already mapping out fallback plans. My mind races—lockdown procedures, possible escape routes, where we stashed the heavier artillery. Katya’s warning rings in my head, making my neck itch.

Bishop is mapping out coverage, rattling off names and times, moving pins on the battered old map on the wall. We’re halfway through our list, tension rising with every unanswered call, when the door crashes open.

Dog bursts in, breathless. “I just heard something.”

I glare at him. “I told you to stay with her.”

Dog shrugs, voice rough. “Believe it or not, but she can take care of herself.”

There’s a strange certainty in the way he says it—a trust I don’t understand. He trusts her?

When? Why?

I see it now, a glimmer of something more than cockiness or lust. He believes she’s worth betting the club on.

But I don’t have time to unpack it.

Dog’s already moving to the window, pointing. “Movement outside. In the trees, by the fence line. I saw at least two shadows, maybe more.”

My spine goes rigid. Bishop glances at me, silent agreement passing between us.

That’s when I hear it—a distant screech, tires on gravel, sharp and unmistakable.

We freeze. The room stills, all breath and noise sucked out.

I nod at Bishop. He’s already reaching for his gun. Dog steps to the window, tension rolling off him like thunder.

It’s started.

Whatever happens next?—

We’re in it now.