Page 19 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

REAPER

W hen I wake up, it’s still dark outside. And I’m not alone, for the first time in a long while.

“Did you sleep?” Katya asks, voice husky with sleep.

I nod, tracing a circle on her bare shoulder. It feels like I’m still floating. Maybe it’s just a dream. “A little. Marine habits die hard.” I pause. “Sometimes I think they never die at all.”

She’s quiet, watching me the way she does—like she’s measuring the words before she speaks them. “You were in the military a long time?”

“From the day I turned eighteen. Served most of my twenties. My old man thought it would keep me straight.” I laugh, short and dry. “I was good at it. Too good. But the world isn’t fair. You see what it does to good men. You see what you have to become if you want to come home alive.”

She shifts, drawing the sheet higher, but she’s still listening. “Did you ever regret it?”

I think about that for a second. “I regret believing the system would always do right by me. I thought loyalty and discipline would be enough. But the world’s got its own rules.

The kind that change when you need them most.” I look at her, letting her see the raw edge I usually hide.

“When I got back, I realized I didn’t believe in honor anymore.

Only power. Only control. I didn’t want to be at someone else’s mercy again. ”

She doesn’t flinch from the words, doesn’t try to fix the history she can’t touch. “Is that why you started the club?”

I nod. “The Ravagers gave me something the military never did. Control. Brotherhood you could trust. Power to keep my own people safe. No one gets left behind here. Not on my watch.”

She’s silent, then she leans in and presses her mouth to my shoulder, slow and sure. “You did that for them. And for me.”

“For all of us,” I say. “You don’t have to be perfect to belong. You just have to fight for your people.” I brush her hair off her cheek, softer than I mean to. “I’ve killed for less than what’s been done to you, Katya. I’ll kill again if I have to. That’s the world I live in now.”

She meets my eyes, steady as I’ve ever seen her. “I believe you.”

I wake up again later with a start, disoriented, the world blurry around the edges. The first thing I notice is the unfamiliar weight in my bed—warm, soft, and real. For a split second, my mind runs through every worst-case scenario.

Fucking hell, I can’t remember the last time I slept so good.

Then I roll onto my back, blinking at the faint gray light creeping through the blinds, and see her—Katya. Tangled in my sheets, hair spilled over the pillow, one hand fisted in the fabric just above her bare chest.

So it wasn’t a dream. We really did fuck last night. And then I proceeded to spill my shit to her. How could I ever do that? I’ve kept my secrets so close to my heart, that’s how I survive. What is it about her that makes the walls come down?

She’s sound asleep, lips parted, lashes fanned against her cheek, and for the briefest moment, I don’t move.

My gaze remains on her skin, flushed where my mouth marked her.

Something moves through me, immediate, almost primitive.

I’ve never felt it before, at least not like this.

Not this possessive heat that makes my pulse thud heavy in my throat.

I don’t let myself feel things for women, certainly not women who crash into my life with as much trouble as this one. But the truth is, just the sight of her lying in my bed is enough to set every nerve in my body on edge. It’s honestly a little fucking unsettling.

I’ve had women before, plenty of them. But I never wanted to wake up with them.

Never wanted to see them in my bed, my space.

Never wanted to lay claim to anyone or anything except my club, my brothers, my own hard-won freedom.

Now, though, I can’t stop staring at her—at the curve of her hip, the way my sheets barely cover her thighs, the bruises I left on her skin.

A rooster crows in the distance, dragging me into the early morning. The club’s probably already stirring. I should get up, get moving, but I don’t. I just lie still, watching Katya sleep, my hand resting on her bare back without even thinking about it.

It’s a dangerous thing, wanting someone you shouldn’t want. She’s trouble—more trouble than any woman I’ve known—and every instinct tells me I should put some distance between us before it’s too late.

But all I want to do is pull her closer.

Then reality hits me like a freight train. I jerk upright, heart thudding, and reach for my phone on the bedside table. The screen lights up: it’s too late. The wedding. That goddamn wedding has come and gone.

“Shit.” The word rips out of me.

I’m on my feet before I can think—yanking on my jeans, shoving my arms through a shirt that smells like last night’s smoke and sweat. I glance at Katya, still sleeping, oblivious to the chaos outside these four walls, then look away, dragging a hand through my hair as I pace.

How long have we been out? Has anyone called?

What the fuck has Novikov done in the last few hours?

My mind’s racing through every possibility—retaliation, silence, bodies in the street.

This whole mess could have exploded while I was tangled up in her, letting my guard down in a way I swore I never would.

I storm out of the room, bare feet thudding heavy against the hall floor, ignoring the questioning looks from a few early risers in the clubhouse. The place feels tense, quieter than it should be. There’s a hum in the air that says bad news is waiting around the next corner.

I need answers. I need to know if Novikov’s made his move.

The second I push through the door to the common room, the tension hits me like a fist to the chest. The air’s thick—everyone in the room is armed and twitchy, every pair of eyes fixed on the floor, the walls, anywhere but me.

Nobody looks rested. Most of the guys are still in last night’s clothes, hair mussed, guns laid across their laps or tucked under arms. Rooster sits by the window, shotgun balanced on his knees, gaze flicking outside every few seconds.

A couple of prospects huddle in the corner, wide-eyed and pale, trying not to breathe too loud.

The patched brothers—Bishop, Dog, Gage—are scattered around the bar, all pretending to be deep in thought, eyes fixed on their beers like the foam’s going to tell them their future.

Dog and Bishop won’t even look at me. Dog’s jaw is clenched tight, shoulders hunched, thumb worrying at the label on his bottle.

Bishop stares into his drink, face blank, knuckles white around the glass.

I can read the guilt, the worry, and something else—something darker—etched into the set of their mouths, the flick of their eyes.

I scan the room, adrenaline burning off the last scraps of sleep and Katya’s warmth. I fucking hate this—hate the not knowing, hate the powerlessness, hate that I let myself get distracted in the first place. One good fuck, and I let the world spin out of my hands.

“What the fuck is going on?” I growl, my voice echoing in the dead room, making a few of the guys flinch.

Nobody answers. For a moment, I want to start flipping tables just to get a reaction, to snap them out of whatever spiral we’ve all been pulled into. I need information. I need control. I need to know how bad the damage is and whether I’m about to pay for my mistakes with blood.

“Did we hear from Novikov?” I ask, voice low, teeth clenched around the growing dread in my chest.

Bishop finally looks up, meeting my gaze for the first time this morning. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw tight, and there’s something hard in his face I haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says flatly.

The silence that follows is suffocating. The kind of silence that’s more dangerous than any firefight—where everyone’s thinking the same thing but nobody wants to say it out loud.

I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. “Is there any news on the TV?”

Dog scoffs, not even bothering to hide his disgust. “What, you think the news is gonna report that we kidnapped a Bratva princess? Maybe they’ll have a segment on ‘Outlaw Bikers and Their Hostage Drama’ after the weather.”

“Shut your mouth,” I snap, shooting him a glare. He holds it, for a heartbeat, then looks away, jaw working.

Twitch, restless as always, grabs his gun from the table. “I’m gonna check the perimeter,” he announces, not waiting for an answer. One by one, the others follow, eager for any excuse to get out.

Nobody’s saying what we’re all thinking. That we’re neck-deep in something we weren’t ready for. That we should’ve handled this differently. That someone fucked up. And maybe—just maybe—that someone was me.

When everyone’s gone but me and Bishop and Dog, I lean back against the bar, arms crossed, and stare at both of them.

Bishop’s tapping his fingers against his glass, rhythmic, steady, but it’s a tell—he’s unraveling inside.

Dog’s still glaring at the floor, but I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“What’s gotten into you?” I ask Dog, my patience already worn thin. He’s been shooting daggers at me all morning, barely keeping his mouth in check. I don’t have time for this, but I can’t let it fester. “You got something to say?” I challenge, meeting his glare head-on.

He snorts, shaking his head, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fuck no. You’re the prez. What you say goes, right?”

His tone is all bite, no respect, and for a second I almost forget he’s family. Almost.

Before I can answer, Bishop speaks up, that calm, dangerous tone of his slicing through the tension like a knife. “And who you do is none of our business.” His gaze is steady, flat, giving nothing away. But there’s an edge under his words that’s sharp as a blade.

I glare at him, but he just looks back, unblinking.

And then it hits me, what this is really about.