Page 16 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

I press my back to the splintered bar, hands shaking, breath coming too quick. The room smells like gunpowder and old whiskey and something metallic—blood, maybe. My ears are ringing, and every part of me is stuck somewhere between fear and numbness.

Three bodies on the floor. My cousin outside, running for cover. My own family using me as bait and not caring if I end up dead on the floor with the rest of them.

I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tell me this is a nightmare, that I’ll wake up somewhere else. But I know better. There’s no waking up from this. Not for me.

I look around—at Bishop, at Dog, at Reaper. These men just risked everything to keep me alive, and the only people who should’ve given a damn about me just tried to have me killed.

I have nowhere to go. No one left.

My heart aches so fiercely I can barely breathe.

Before I can make sense of the emptiness swallowing me whole, the sound of motorcycle engines roars up the driveway—dozens of them, loud and wild, the ground itself seeming to shake under the weight of them.

Reaper lets out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Finally. Reinforcements.”

A few patched club members barrel through the battered door, weapons ready, eyes wide as they take in the carnage.

“Jesus, what happened here?” one of them says as he steps inside, gun still drawn, eyes sweeping over the wreckage. His boots crunch glass as he looks from the bodies, to the bullet-pocked walls…to me, huddled by the bar.

“Took you long enough to get here, Gage,” Dog says, voice gruff but almost relieved.

“We got here as fast as we could,” Gage fires back, still scanning for threats.

Bishop, pacing behind the bar, checks the window again. “Well, maybe the danger isn’t over yet,” he says, glancing at me—my arms wrapped tight around my knees, trying to make myself small. I don’t meet his eyes. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

Reaper doesn’t waste any time. “Bishop, take the rifle up to the roof. If they circle back, I want eyes on them before they get close.”

Bishop nods, moving with purpose, already loading his sniper. “On it.”

“Dog,” Reaper snaps, “drag out the wounded men. If they’re breathing, we don’t want them bleeding all over my floor.”

Dog rolls his eyes but heads to the door, grabbing one of the Alexy’s men by the collar, starting to haul him out with practiced efficiency.

Reaper walks through the mess, surveying the damage, kicking aside broken chairs and splintered wood. He gives Dog a pointed look. “And I’m charging you bastards for ruining my furniture. Dog, get their wallets and watches.”

Dog actually grins—dark, wild, adrenaline still pumping through him—and starts rifling through pockets, tossing a cracked phone and a handful of cash onto the counter.

I stay where I am, hugging my legs to my chest, trying to be as small and invisible as possible.

These men were supposed to protect me.

That thought keeps spinning in my head, stuck on repeat, louder than the chaos outside.

My own family. Alexy didn’t even say goodbye when he left last night; he just disappeared, like I didn’t matter.

Now I see it for what it was—part of his plan, another move in a game where I was always the sacrificial piece.

So what makes him—or any of them—different from Novikov? Maybe nothing. Maybe I was always alone.

“You good?” Reaper asks, kneeling down just enough so he’s at my eye level. It’s the first time he’s shown even a sliver of humanity since I got here. For a split second, I almost let myself lean into that.

But I snap out of it. I can’t afford to let them see how helpless I feel. If I do, the wolves will descend. No one here protects the weak—not for long.

I force myself upright, shaking off the numbness. “Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, steady as I can manage.

Reaper points down the hallway. “Second door on your right.”

I nod, refusing to look anyone in the eye as I slip past the chaos and down the hall. I close the door, turn the lock, and finally let myself breathe. The small bathroom is cracked tile, harsh light, and a mirror streaked from too many rough hands and too few clean rags.

I stare at my reflection. My hair’s a mess, eyeliner smudged halfway down my cheeks, lips raw from biting them all night. I look less like a bride and more like someone’s ghost.

I turn on the tap, letting icy water run over my hands before splashing it onto my face, scrubbing away the smudges, the grime, the panic. It doesn’t help much. No amount of water can rinse away the look in my eyes.

This is it , I tell myself. Shake it off, Katya.

You want to survive? No more tears. No more fear.

You fight. No one else is coming for you.

When I step out of the bathroom, the mood has shifted.

The chaos is gone, replaced with the buzz of low voices, grunts of effort as bodies are dragged and moved, and the clink of bottles as someone starts sweeping up glass near the bar.

The tension is still there, but it’s buried under the mechanics of survival.

A couple of the guys look up when they see me.

Their eyes linger. One of them—some lean, tattooed thing with a grin that’s a little too easy—lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Didn’t know we had a queen in our midst.”

Another chuckles. “She’s gonna raise the standard around here, that’s for damn sure.”

I offer them a coy little smile.

I’ve done this before—different room, different language, same game. I know what they want. I know what they expect. So I give them just enough to keep looking.

I ask one of them if they need help moving the table back, and he jumps to assist. We talk. I laugh at something dumb. I throw my head back just a little, tilt my body toward the next one.

They’re not used to women like me here.

I flash a small, wry smile at one of them—a guy named Rooster with arms like tree trunks and a tattoo that wraps from his neck to his knuckles. “You going to sweep all that glass, or are you waiting for a fairy godmother?”

He grins, tossing the broom handle from one hand to the other. “Depends. You volunteering?”

I arch a brow, the corner of my mouth curling up as I take the broom from him. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.” My voice is light, teasing.

Dog strolls by and bumps my hip with his. “Careful, princess. These guys will start fighting over who gets to hold your dustpan.”

I give him a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Then maybe they’ll stop shooting up the place.”

“This place is a mess,” Rooster mutters, sweeping up a pile of broken glass with his boot.

“You can tell the difference?” I shoot back, letting my voice go just dry enough to sting. “You’d think you’d have more pride in where you live.”

“This is ol’ ladies work,” someone complains.

Reaper snorts from the other side of the room. “Since you move like ol’ ladies, it fits. And the next time I call and say ‘all hands on deck,’ I expect you here immediately.” His voice has that edge that brooks no argument.

The men around us hoot and holler, swept up in the easy mood, and I keep going—moving through the ruined salon, picking up glasses, brushing off the worst of the day.

I have to be seen. I have to remind them I’m here—not as a victim, but as someone worth noticing. Someone they’ll remember.

Reaper watches all of this from behind the bar, one eyebrow raised, a sly edge in his voice. “You recovered quickly.”

I don’t let him see the way my hands shake on the broom. I lift my chin, toss my hair back, and meet his gaze with a cool, practiced ease. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises.”

I school my expression as Reaper levels a glare at me—the kind that would make a lesser woman shrink.

But I don’t shrink. I lift my chin, dust still clinging to my fingertips, the edge of my skirt brushing my thigh as I tilt my head just so.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, the kind that promises consequences, but all I can think is… this is the nut I need to crack.

“In the office,” he barks. “Now.”

The order slices through the noise in the room. All conversation dies. The men straighten. One of them mutters, “Damn,” under his breath as if I just got sentenced.

“Why?” I ask, playing innocent, letting the question drip with syrup instead of defiance.

Reaper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Don’t ask why. When I say something—jump.”

There’s tension in his jaw like he’s one thread away from unraveling. Something about that gets under my skin—in a good way.

I flash a slow, measured smile and set the broom down with care. “Well,” I murmur as I start to walk, hips swaying just enough to be noticed, “as long as you say ‘jump,’ I’ll try to land on my feet.”

Behind me, someone coughs to hide a laugh. Reaper’s eyes narrow, but I swear I see something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe. Interest. Something primal.

He storms into the office, and I follow, pulse quickening. He’s pacing before I even shut the door behind us, his energy coiled tight. This is the man everyone listens to, the man whose word is law in this chaotic little kingdom.

And I just danced a little too close to the edge.

Still, something about that appeals to me. There’s strength in him. Control. But beneath that simmering intensity, I wonder what kind of man he is when he isn’t barking orders or shooting down his enemies. Is there softness there, or is he made entirely of iron and smoke?

I chuckle quietly to myself, amused by my own thoughts. Can I get him to purr like a pussycat? Doubtful.

Reaper doesn’t waste time, doesn’t bother with small talk or soft edges. He stares me down, his jaw tight, eyes dark. “I know what you’re trying to do out there,” he says, voice low, almost dangerous.

I blink at him, feigning innocence, lips parting just enough to let a little smile through. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Stop it. Whatever game you’re playing, it’s not going to work on me.”

He starts to pace, tension radiating off him in waves.

“You think you can just strut around, making eyes at every man who looks at you? You think acting like you own the place is going to keep you safe?” His voice rises, rough and raw, years of command boiling to the surface. “Who do you think you are?”

But I don’t back down. I don’t give him the satisfaction of fear or shame. Instead, I step closer, letting the chaos of the clubhouse fade to a low, distant hum.

He keeps talking, but I barely hear the words.

I see the way his hands clench, the way his chest rises and falls, the way he’s fighting something inside himself.

The truth is, I’m tired of fighting, tired of being nothing but a pawn, tired of pretending I’m not as alive as the fire burning through me.

So I do the only reckless thing that makes sense—I cross the space between us in one smooth, sure motion, pressing my body against his, feeling the heat of him through my clothes. I tilt my head, lips brushing his jaw, breath catching as his hands instinctively find my waist.

He tenses, just for a second—then his resolve cracks, and I seize the moment, capturing his mouth with mine. The kiss is hot, hungry, everything we’ve both been holding back. My hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into the leather of his cut as his grip tightens on my hips.

He responds—God, does he respond—his mouth bruising, tongue sliding against mine, pulling me closer until there’s no space left at all.

Every inch of him is hard muscle and raw heat, and I feel him give in, just a little, to the chaos I bring. For once, I don’t care if it’s a mistake. I just want to burn.