Page 15 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

BISHOP

“ W hat the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, incredulous, as Reaper steps aside and lets her pass. He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps his arms folded, eyes fixed on the door like he knows something I don’t.

“Just wait,” he says, voice low and steady. He’s got that tone—the one that means he’s already three moves ahead and doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

I shake my head, but Dog doesn’t wait for permission.

“I don’t think she’ll be able to open the door,” he mutters, pushing past us, his boots pounding across the floor.

In another moment, he’s at her side, kneeling to pull free the makeshift reinforcements we installed weeks ago.

I watch him fumble with the heavy bolts, Katya hovering in the shadows by the door, her energy restless and sharp.

I glance at Reaper, raising an eyebrow in question. He just shrugs, hands in his pockets, acting like this is all some test he’s waiting to see play out. I hate when he does this. It makes me feel like I missed something—like there’s a game happening and I’m the only one who never got the rules.

We drift to the main bar, keeping our distance but close enough to see everything. Katya finally steps outside, Dog holding the door as she darts past. I catch the way she hesitates on the porch, gaze fixed down the driveway—like she’s searching for a ghost.

And then I see him.

A man standing halfway up the gravel, posture too straight, jacket neat and formal. He has her eyes. He’s younger than Novikov, but older than Katya. There’s a kind of icy calm to him that sets my teeth on edge.

Reaper steps out after her, voice casual as anything. “Hey, Alexy. What’s the hurry?”

Katya whips around, confusion all over her face. She’s standing on the last step of the porch, eyes darting between Reaper and Alexy. “What are you doing?” she demands.

It’s too quiet out here.

The kind of quiet that makes my skin itch, like every bird and bug just vanished. I don’t like it, and Reaper’s calm isn’t making me feel any better. I watch him out on the porch, arms loose at his sides, voice too casual as he addresses Katya’s cousin.

“Katya,” Alexy calls out, eyes never leaving her. “What are you waiting for?”

But Reaper doesn’t move. “Alexy,” he says, his tone almost friendly, “did you come alone?”

That makes me pause.

Why is he asking that?

I slip out from the bar, keeping in the shadows, and find a spot near the window where I can see more of the property.

Sure enough, tucked just beyond the tree line—almost out of sight—are three, maybe four men.

Dressed in black, hands loose at their sides, but the posture says it all. They’re not here for a family reunion.

What the hell is going on here?

And why is Reaper stalling, letting Katya stand out there exposed?

Katya’s voice drifts back to us, thin and tense. “Reaper wants to be paid, Alexy. We made a deal.”

Alexy doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay on Reaper, cold and annoyed. “I don’t have time for this,” he says, his tone finally slipping, irritation seeping through. He glances over his shoulder, just a little—toward the trees, toward his men, as if he’s waiting for a signal.

My jaw tightens.

“Katya, please come over here,” Alexy says.

“Take cover!” I shout, my voice echoing above the next crack of gunfire.

Katya darts back to the door just in time.

I grab her arm and haul her across the room.

She stumbles, too stunned to resist, and we slide behind the old oak bar where Reaper’s already crouched low, gun ready, eyes cold.

The bar’s thick, solid—built in another era.

It won’t stop everything, but it’s better than nothing.

Bullets bite into the walls, and glass shatters, the air thick with the sound of wood splintering. My pulse hammers at my temples, but I keep Katya’s head down, shield her as best I can. She’s pale, lips parted, still reeling from what just happened.

“Who needs enemies when you have family?” I mutter, shaking my head.

She looks at me, dazed. “Would he really kill me? I grew up with him.”

I meet her gaze, letting her see the ugly truth. “You’ve been mucking up everyone’s plans for mutual destruction, Katya. They could kill you, blame Novikov for letting you get kidnapped by his business associates, and then go to war over it. Everyone gets what they want—except you.”

She shakes her head, as if trying to wake herself up. “And why would they do this? I still don’t understand.”

I sigh, keeping my eyes above the bar, watching for shadows in the windows.

“Look, I don’t know how it works in Moscow, but here?

A grievance like that is enough to justify killing a rival crew.

Your death would be a spark. Blame Novikov, the Bratva takes revenge, and your family gets to come out on top, or at least try. ”

Reaper grunts his agreement, gun trained on the door. Katya’s silent, still shaking, absorbing the reality she never wanted to see.

The door gives one final groan—then crashes to the floor, blowing in with a cloud of splinters and daylight.

There’s barely time to think. A couple of the men in dark suits burst through the frame, guns raised, spraying bullets wild into the room.

Glass shatters, bottles explode behind us, and wood chips fly off the bar.

Reaper lets out a guttural snarl. “They’re ruining the furniture,” he mutters, as if that’s the worst part of this whole mess.

I almost laugh at the absurdity—almost—until Katya hisses beside me, “Seriously? All this stuff would be rejected from a second-hand store.”

Reaper shoots her a glare but doesn’t waste another breath.

He rises from behind the bar like a viper striking, moving with a calm, practiced grace.

One hand slips beneath his vest, drawing a pistol from a holster at his ribs, and in the next breath, he squeezes off two shots—one, two—each man drops, their guns clattering to the floor before they even hit the ground.

Dog’s already flanking left, diving for cover behind an overturned table, firing back as another shadow flickers in the ruined doorway. I’m up too, gun drawn, heart slamming in my chest. I move with purpose, all the years of drills and runs and bloody business coming back in a rush.

I take cover by the side of the bar, sighting down the barrel. Someone tries to duck in from the porch and I squeeze off a shot, hear the wet thud and the collapse just outside the threshold. Dog catches my eye, nods once, no words needed.

Then everything goes still.

Nobody else tries the door. The gunfire from outside slows, then stops altogether.

I duck behind the broken window, eyes scanning the driveway for movement. I spot Alexy darting behind his car—he’s lost that calm mask, replaced now by panic, his head barely visible as he crouches for cover.

I squeeze off a few shots, punching holes in the car door, glass shattering, making sure he knows there’s nowhere safe left. He jumps back, scrambling, yelling orders I can’t quite hear over the ringing in my ears.

Reaper steps into the doorway—bold, backlit by the wreckage, not bothering to duck. He shouts, his voice carrying over the bodies, over the mess. “We’ve injured three of yours already! I won’t hesitate to kill them if you keep coming! Get the fuck out of here—now!”

There’s a long pause.

Silence—except for Katya’s ragged breathing and the creak of wood settling under the weight of everything that just went down.

For a second, nobody moves. Not inside, not out.

And then I see it—a slow retreat. Alexy, pale and furious, barking one last order before climbing into his car. His men—those who are left—scatter back into the trees, boots thumping against the gravel.

I keep my gun trained on the car until it’s nothing but a glint between the trees, making damn sure none of them get a last shot in.

Only then do I let myself breathe.