Page 23 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

BISHOP

K atya sits at the edge of the cracked Formica table, burner phone clutched in her hand like it’s worth something.

She starts speaking in rapid-fire Russian, her tone almost breezy, and if I didn’t know better I’d think she was calling in a pizza order.

“Da, da, spasibo,” she says, scribbling something on a napkin with one of my good pens.

I watch her, arms folded, a sour taste in my mouth.

She could sell shit to a sanitation worker and have them say thank you for the privilege.

The way she slips from nervous survivor to smooth operator makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Part of me admires it—hell, we need that kind of skill on a job like this.

But another part? It’s just pure, cold paranoia.

People who are this good at talking can do a lot of damage if they ever decide to turn on you.

She ends the call with another round of thank-yous, then dials the new number, her posture changing.

She sits up straighter, shoulders squared, the girlish tone dropping away.

This time her Russian is slower, more formal, every syllable clipped and precise.

Whoever’s on the other end, it’s clear they’re someone who matters.

I watch the set of her jaw, the careful way she keeps her voice low, the way her eyes dart once to the front door as if she’s already weighing every exit.

I don’t trust easily, and I trust less when the stakes are this high.

She could be calling in backup, selling us out, or walking us right into a trap, and none of us would know until it was already too late.

I watch her hang up the phone, her face composed, eyes almost unreadable.

That cold trickle of doubt runs down my spine.

Katya’s proven she’s capable of anything—after all, I’ve watched her bounce from Dog’s arms, to mine, then to Reaper’s, with just enough real feeling to make each of us question where we stand.

Is she setting us up? Or just trying to survive with whatever tools she’s got left?

She sets the burner down, looks at all of us, then meets Dog’s gaze head on. “He’s coming here.”

Dog frowns. “Who?”

“The Zaika Pakhan. Mikhail Zaika.” She says it like it’s just any other name.

Dog squints. “Pakhan? What’s that mean?”

“It’s like a boss,” she says, her voice smooth. “The head of the Bratva family. There’s no one higher, not in Zaika. Like Reaper, only ten times more dangerous, and with more money and soldiers than this entire state’s National Guard.” She says it calmly, like she’s ordering lunch.

My stomach drops. “What did you tell him?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended. The last thing we need is another Bratva warlord showing up on our goddamn doorstep. “You brought in more Bratva?”

“Relax,” she says. “It isn’t like that. Right, Reaper?”

Reaper is frowning. “I didn’t expect him to show up here himself.”

“What did you tell him?” I ask, before turning to Reaper. “And this was your plan?”

“Partially,” Reaper admits.

“Don’t worry about Mikhail,” Katya says. “Like I said, I’ll deal with him.”

“What. Did. You. Tell. Him?” I repeat, punctuating every word.

“That my wedding dress wasn’t ready. That the wedding’s been delayed a couple of days.

That I went through the guest list and noticed a huge oversight.

Of course, he was furious when he realized Novikov didn’t send him an invitation.

Said it was a blatant show of disrespect.

” She gives a wry smile. “So he’s coming. ”

I blink. I feel like someone just punched me in the chest. “And you thought that was a good idea?”

She shrugs. “It buys us time. And if we’re lucky, it puts Novikov on the defensive.”

Dog looks over at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure that’s the right thing to do?”

Hell if I know.

I look Katya dead in the eyes and ask, “And what happens when he gets here and realizes you’re in bed with the Ravagers instead of your family?”

For once, she doesn’t have an immediate answer. And that tells me everything I need to know.

“One of our beds,” Reaper corrects quickly. Dog and I glance at him. We’re still pissed, of course, but this isn’t the time for it.

I shake my head. “I still don’t get it. Why pour more gasoline on the fire?”

Katya lifts her chin, resolute. “No, no. It’ll be fine. He’s not marching in with a battalion. He was nearby wrapping up business. He’s going to lodge at a hotel here in town—quiet, low-key. He’ll probably be here tonight, sniffing out what Novikov’s hiding.”

“We’ll meet him at the hotel,” she continues. “Wait for him, explain everything. The truth. What Novikov did. What he tried to do.”

Reaper lets out a dry, mirthless laugh and glances at her sideways. “Either you’re a genius…” He steps closer, his voice dropping low. “Or an idiot.”

She smirks. “We’ll find out tonight.”

Reaper shakes his head, muttering something under his breath—but I can’t help but notice the way he looks at her. Not like a man watching a fuse burn…but like one wondering if the explosion might just be worth it.

“Mikhail Zaika coming here still doesn’t mean he’ll want an audience with you,” I point out. “Do I have to remind you how things work in your world?”

Her face falls a little. “No, you don’t.”

I feel like a total asshole. “What I mean is, I still think this is absolutely insane.”

“What’s the fanciest hotel in the area?” she asks, as if that solves anything.

“This town doesn’t do fancy,” I mutter.

“Just patronize me, please,” she says, lips twitching like she knows she’s pushing it.

Dog sighs. “Well…there’s one Marriott. About a half-hour drive from here, right by the coast. It’s the only place with real room service and linens that don’t itch.”

“That’s it,” she says immediately. “Mikhail loves fancy—or at least he did when I met him years ago in New York. Velvet suits. Smelled like money and too much cologne.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You think he’ll actually stay there?”

She nods with way too much certainty. “He’s already nearby, probably needs a quick crash pad before sniffing around town. He’ll want comfort and control. That hotel gives him both.”

“You seem happy about this,” I mutter, watching her with narrowed eyes.

Her smile’s quick. Almost too quick. “I’m happy we’re doing something instead of just sitting around waiting to get hit.”

“Uh-huh.”

She’s practically glowing—like she just won a game we didn’t know we were playing. That alone puts every instinct I have on edge.

Dog watches her too, tense, lips pressed together. He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking.

None of us like this.

Except her.

And that’s what makes me uneasy.

She turns to Reaper now, chin lifted like she’s calling a bluff at a high-stakes table. “So. Are we doing this or not?”

Reaper doesn’t answer right away. His jaw ticks like he’s weighing options, none of which he likes. Finally, he turns to me.

“Bishop. You take her to the hotel.”

“But—” Dog starts.

“No buts,” Reaper snaps. “I need my master-at-arms here, fortifying our defenses. If Novikov comes knocking again, I want to be ready.”

Dog looks like he wants to argue, but he bites his tongue and nods, jaw clenched tight.

I glance at Katya. She’s the only one in the room who looks vaguely pleased with the arrangement. She shrugs, all innocent-like, but there’s a glint in her eyes I don’t like. “I just think it’s time we stop reacting and start playing offense.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “And this offense starts at the Marriott?”

“Hopefully it doesn’t get to that.”