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

KATYA

T he rumble of motorcycles echoes around us, low and heavy, like a gathering storm.

Novikov stiffens, and for the first time since I entered the room…

I see him worried.

His eyes flick to the window as the low rumble of engines gets louder, closer. He sets his drink down with deliberate care and leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled.

“You should leave,” he says, voice flat. “The less you know about my business dealings, the better.”

I don’t move.

Something hot and reckless rises in me, burning away the ice I’ve carefully packed around my heart.

“You forget who I am,” I say, stepping closer to his desk, ignoring the way every instinct screams at me to back down. “I may have been born in this country, but I was raised in Russia. I’ve seen everything.”

For the first time, he smiles.

It’s not a kind smile.

It’s a butcher’s smile, slow and cruel.

“People who defy me,” he says softly, “tend to disappear.”

My mouth dries. I force myself not to step back.

His black gaze pins me there as he lifts his glass again, swirling the liquor lazily.

“My ex-wife,” he says, almost conversationally, “thought she could outsmart me. The feds bought her. Promised her protection if she testified. She never made it to the courthouse.”

A chill slithers down my spine, cold and oily, knotting my gut.

I open my mouth—whether to fight, to lie, to plead, I don’t even know?—

But the doors behind me slam open with a violent crash that echoes off the high ceilings.

I spin, heart hammering against my ribs.

Three men stride into the room like they own it. Big. Rough. Covered in ink and leather. Everything about them screams trouble. The kind you don’t outrun.

The one in the lead—black hair shot with silver at the temples, dark eyes cold enough to stop a heart—moves with deadly grace.

Next to him is a guy with messy dark hair and a cocky smirk flickering at his mouth. His eyes sweep the room and land on me, like he already knows what kind of mess I am.

The third man is colder—neat dark hair, pale blue eyes that slice straight through me. He doesn’t smile. He just watches, every inch of him locked down tight.

All three of them look at me.

Not at Bakum. Not at the lieutenant trying to stammer out an apology.

Me.

Heat punches through my stomach, low and fast.

They don’t even try to hide it—the way their gazes stick, sizing me up, weighing something I can’t name. The air feels heavier. Hotter.

Bakum’s lieutenant hurries forward, his face pale. “Apologies, Mr. Novikov. They insisted?—”

The man in the middle—salt-and-pepper hair, cold eyes—steps closer to Bakum’s desk.

“Bakum,” he says, voice low and steady. No fear. No fake respect.

Bakum leans back slowly, the glass of vodka forgotten in his hand. “Reaper,” he says. “You’re early.”

Reaper.

The name fits him. Dead calm. Deadly serious.

“We don’t like waiting,” the messy-haired one says, flashing a quick grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Beside him, the one with the icy stare stays quiet, arms crossed over his chest. Watching. Measuring. Waiting for something.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the tension coil tighter in the room.

Bakum wants them gone. Fast.

Which means whatever business they have—it matters. And maybe…just maybe…I can use it.

“You know how it is,” Bakum says. “Business.”

Reaper glances back at the other two.

“Dog, Bishop—watch the doors,” he says.

Dog—the one with the grin—shrugs. “Looks secure to me, Prez.”

Prez. President.

So Reaper’s their leader.

Bishop says nothing, just moves toward the corner, his pale blue eyes sweeping the room like he’s counting exits.

I move toward the side table, my steps slow, careful not to draw too much attention. My fingers brush the neck of a crystal bottle, tilting it toward them.

“Drink?” I offer, my voice smooth.

All three bikers look at me at once, and the heat in the room kicks up another notch, thick enough to taste.

Bakum’s head snaps toward me, his frown deepening. “What do you think you’re doing?” he says, his voice low and warning.

I don’t flinch.

I smile.

“Being a good hostess,” I say lightly. “Isn’t that what you want from me?”

His eyes narrow, dark with something I can’t quite read. Behind him, the three men watch the exchange closely. Dog’s mouth twitches, almost like he’s impressed.

The man with the salt-and-pepper hair—Reaper—cuts a look toward Bakum.

“She shouldn’t be in here,” he says. Voice flat. Hard.

Bakum smiles thinly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unfortunately, she’s not trained yet. Doesn’t take orders well.”

Inside, my fists clench at my sides. Heat crawls up my neck, but I smile sweetly, like I don’t care. “I guess you’ll have to work harder, then,” I say, voice sugar and venom.

For a beat, no one speaks.

I feel the bikers’ eyes flick to me again—measuring, reassessing.

Dog—the one with the messy hair and easy smirk—grins wider, like he’s found something he wasn’t expecting.

“Bishop,” Reaper says, jerking his chin toward the cold one, “lock it down.”

Bishop gives a small nod, barely moving.

Dog stretches lazily and says, “Got any beer? I’d take a beer.”

I seize the opening like a lifeline. “Well, we don’t have that here,” I say, turning toward him, “but I’ll see if I can find some.”

Bakum’s scowl deepens. His jaw ticks, tight with barely held anger. From the look on his face, I know this won’t be the end of it.

There’ll be a price later.

“Good girl,” Dog says, pushing off the wall and sauntering toward me. “I’ll come with.”

“What—” Bakum starts, half rising from his chair.

But Reaper cuts him off, smooth and cold. “Better this way. Fewer ears.”

Bakum’s mouth flattens into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue.

Dog falls into step beside me, and we head toward the door.

I don’t look back.

I can feel the heat of his body next to mine, solid and dangerous, and I sneak a glance at him from under my lashes. Broad chest under a black T-shirt, rough hands, a cocky swagger that says he’s been in more bar fights than he can count—and won most of them.

Dog.

I wonder why they call him that.

Something tells me it’s not because he rolls over and plays dead.

At the edge of the hall, the lieutenant falls into step in front of us, stiff and nervous.

“Where would I find beer?” I ask him lightly.

He doesn’t meet my eye. “Follow me. Kitchen’s this way.”

Dog’s hand brushes lightly against my lower back, guiding me forward. And I can still feel it—the heat of him. The way his attention sticks to me even when he’s not looking.

The kitchen smells like bleach and stale bread. Big industrial ovens line one wall. An oversized stainless-steel fridge hums in the corner.

The lieutenant’s phone buzzes. He curses under his breath and steps away, already answering it, waving vaguely at the fridge. “Beer’s in there.”

I walk over and tug the heavy door open. Cold air rushes out, hitting my bare arms.

Behind me, Dog leans against a cabinet, arms folded across his chest, watching me like he’s got nothing better to do.

“You gonna tell me who you are?” he asks, voice lazy, almost amused.

I glance over my shoulder. “That depends who’s asking.”

He grins.

God, he’s handsome in that rough, reckless way that spells disaster.

Messy dark hair that looks like he rolled out of bed ready to fight someone.

Hazel eyes that don’t miss a thing. A chipped tooth when he smiles—like he got punched once and never bothered fixing it.

Tattoo ink snakes down his arms, disappearing under the sleeves of his cut.

He’s the kind of man you don’t trust with your heart, your wallet, or your secrets. And definitely not with your body.

“Name’s Dog,” he says, pushing off the cabinet and stepping closer. “And I don’t bite unless you ask nice.”

I raise a brow, unimpressed. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

He chuckles low under his breath. “Supposed to make you curious.”

And for a stupid, reckless second, I want to see just how far he’ll push.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Katya,” I say.

“Sounds foreign,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Didn’t my accent give it away?”

Then he says, casual as anything, “Where’s your phone?”

I blink, caught off guard.

He smiles wider, like he caught something important.

The question knocks the air out of me faster than a slap, but I cover it with a smirk. “Why? Gonna ask for my number?”

His grin flashes wider, a dimple cutting deep into his cheek. It makes him look younger, almost boyish—if the tattoos crawling up his arms didn’t tell another story.

“Maybe,” he says. “Might want to check on you later. Make sure you didn’t get lost.”

Flirting. Easy, harmless on the surface.

But under it—a hook.

Giving him my number? Letting him into that part of my world?

Dangerous.

Stupid.

I flash him a grin anyway, playing the game because it’s safer than showing fear.

“You don’t even know who I am,” I say, stepping just out of his reach.

“And yet,” Dog says, popping the beer open with a flick of his thumb against the counter, “here we are.” He lifts the bottle to his mouth, never taking his eyes off me.

Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes against my skin. Dog’s eyes flick down, catching the movement.

I reach into my bust, slipping it out slowly, watching his gaze darken just a little.

Good. Let him look.

I glance at the screen. Alexy.

I answer with a sigh. “Still alive.”

“That’s not funny,” Alexy snaps at the other end. His voice is low and tight.

“I’m upstairs,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Come find me.”

There’s a pause. “Yeah,” he says finally, and the line goes dead.

I slide the phone down, and Dog’s still standing there, smiling at me like he’s waiting for something.

I already know what it is.

My stomach knots, but I force my hand forward, offering him the phone like it’s no big deal. He takes it, his fingers brushing mine. Rough. Warm. Too familiar.

He taps the screen fast, punching in a number, a little too confident about it.

“When you get bored of that old man in there,” Dog says, flashing me that crooked smile, “call me. I’ll show you a good time.”

I snort under my breath. “Aren’t you sweet?” I say. “Like a puppy.”

He freezes, eyebrows lifting. “Puppy?” he echoes, like he can’t believe I said it. He hands my phone back, shaking his head. “Never heard that one before.” There’s an edge to his grin now.

I tuck my phone away, giving him a slow look. “Is that so?”

Dog leans in slightly, close enough that I catch the faint scent of smoke and motor oil clinging to him. “People don’t call me that unless they’ve got a death wish. You’d be surprised,” he says, his voice dropping low, “what I do when someone underestimates me.”

Before I can answer, Reaper’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Dog,” he calls from down the hallway. “We’re leaving.”

Dog straightens up, the lazy grin slipping back into place.

He looks at me like he’s not quite ready to go. “Catch you later, princess,” he says, giving me a two-fingered salute.

I watch him go, the swagger in his walk, the way he doesn’t bother glancing back.