Page 28 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

T wo guards shove me through a second doorway and into a connecting suite that feels colder than the first. One tries to pin my wrists behind my back.

I twist hard and drive my heel into his shin.

He yelps, folding for half a second, which feels sickly satisfying—right until the other guard cuffs me with an openhanded slap that snaps my head sideways.

Pain blooms across my cheek, copper tang flooding my mouth. I blink past the sting, refusing to give them the pleasure of a scream.

“Careful now,” a calm voice purrs.

Zaika steps inside, closing the door behind him with polite quiet. He looks me over like I’m an auction piece—measuring, cataloguing bruises, deciding what needs fixing. “Wouldn’t want that pretty face wasted,” he says.

“Fuck you,” I spit, lip throbbing.

He almost smiles. “Charming.”

He waves, and the guards yank my arms forward, cinching zip ties around my wrists. Plastic digs into skin. Every instinct tells me to keep fighting, but I hold still—save energy, wait for an opening.

Zaika straightens the cuff of his immaculate jacket. “Your friends have abandoned you,” he announces, voice mild, like he’s discussing weather. “They ran as soon as guns turned their way.”

My heart lurches so violently I feel it in my throat. Dog wouldn’t leave. Bishop wouldn’t leave. Would he?

No. I breathe through the doubt, steadying the quake in my chest. They’re regrouping. They’re smarter than a frontal charge. They have to be.

But the seed is planted, throbbing with my pulse as Zaika’s men force me into a chair. My cheek burns, wrists sting, yet the worst pain is the voice in my head whispering, What if he’s right?

Zaika kicks a duffel toward my feet; it thuds against the carpet. “Fresh clothes,” he says. “Clean yourself up. We leave for Novikov’s estate soon.”

I lift my zip-tied wrists a few useless inches. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little tied up here.”

He smiles like it’s a private joke. “I’ll leave you to it for a bit. Solitude calms the temper.” He turns for the door.

“It was a trap all along, wasn’t it?” The words rip out before I can swallow them.

Zaika pauses, hand on the knob. He looks back, eyes bright with amusement. “Correct. Though I didn’t think you were foolish enough to walk right in.” He chuckles. “You really thought I’d side with low-life Riazanovs over my own blood?”

“Novikov is barely your blood, and you know he’s just a snake,” I push.

His smile thins. “Careful. You’re a guest, and I am a gracious host. I’d hate to reconsider my hospitality.”

I shake my head, pulse hammering. “A gracious host doesn’t slap his guests or drag them off in zip ties.”

“A gracious host,” he says, voice silk over steel, “keeps them alive.”

He steps out. The lock clicks. I’m alone with the echo of his words and the duffel at my feet. Fear gnaws, but fury burns hotter.

I stare down at the duffel bag on the floor, the plastic ties biting into my wrists, the ache in my cheek refusing to fade.

Every inch of me feels raw and exposed, but it’s my pride that hurts worst of all.

I never thought I’d end up here—bound, humiliated, waiting for some Bratva kingpin to drag me back to Novikov like a parcel nobody wants.

The men I gambled everything on, the men I let touch me, hold me, strip me down to skin and soul—they’re gone.

Just like that. I trusted them, or maybe just needed to believe someone could care enough to fight for me.

I let myself believe I could carve out a place in their world, that I was something more than a pawn, more than the battered, expendable daughter of a doomed family.

That I could make my own rules. My cheeks burn with the memory of what I did with them—each of them—how easy it was to give in, how desperate I was to feel alive, to feel seen.

But in the end, I’m here, sitting on the floor in a strange room, my skin stinging with the reminder that trust is always a mistake. I should have known better. There are no knights in shining armor in my story—just men who take what they want and disappear when the heat comes down.

It’s not just shame that flushes my face; it’s anger at myself.

For letting Bishop’s hands on my skin convince me he cared.

For letting Dog’s wild laughter make me feel safe, even for a heartbeat.

For letting Reaper’s impossible eyes and harsh words convince me I belonged somewhere, with someone.

I thought I was using them, spinning them in my web.

Maybe I was, for a while. But the truth is I wanted to believe in them, and that makes me the biggest fool of all.

I curl my hands into fists, feeling the plastic dig deeper.

My pulse pounds in my ears, rage mixing with humiliation, fear with bitter disappointment.

Alone. Always alone, no matter how many bodies fill the room, no matter whose mouth is on my neck.

I can almost hear Zaika laughing from the other side of the door, smug in the knowledge that every path leads back to him, to Novikov, to the same old cycle of men with guns and cold eyes and no loyalty.

I blink hard, refusing to let tears fall. There will be a time to break, but not here, not now. I’m Katya Riazanova, and I will not let any of them—Dog, Bishop, Reaper, Zaika, Novikov—define what happens next. If no one is coming for me, then I’ll save myself.

Half an hour passes in a thick, stifling silence.

I pace as far as the plastic ties let me, stubbornly refusing to let fear sink in too deep.

When the door finally opens, it’s two men in suits.

One holds a pistol low at his side; the other steps forward with a pocketknife and slices through the ties at my wrists.

The sting as the plastic snaps away is almost a relief, but I can’t help rubbing my wrists, glaring at them both.

“No need to be so dramatic,” I mutter, but neither one cracks a smile.

They motion with the gun toward the duffel on the floor. “Get dressed,” the bigger one grunts.

I kneel and unzip it, trying not to let my hands shake.

Inside, the only thing remotely wearable is a dress—tight black fabric, too short, clings to every curve, a plunging neckline I’d never choose on my own.

Clearly meant to make me feel exposed, maybe to humiliate me in front of Novikov, a little warning from Zaika about who’s in control.

I almost laugh at the pettiness of it, but all I do is grit my teeth and pull it on, squaring my shoulders even as the hem rides high up my thighs.

They give me five seconds to tug my hair into place before motioning me out the door.

The hallway smells like old carpet and expensive aftershave.

I walk between them, head high, trying to look bored.

There’s no use struggling now—I need to get outside, need an opportunity to run, not a bullet in my back in some hotel corridor.

The elevator ride is silent, the men keeping a step behind me, close enough to make a grab if I even flinch wrong. I force myself not to look at my reflection in the shiny doors, hating the way the dress feels on my skin.

Downstairs, a black car waits at the curb, engine running, windows tinted dark as secrets. A driver in sunglasses holds the door open. One of the guards presses a hand at the small of my back, not gently, nudging me forward.

I slide into the back seat, spine rigid, heart racing. The door shuts with a cold, final sound, and the car slides away from the curb, carrying me closer to Novikov—and whatever nightmare he has waiting. I clench my hands in my lap and remind myself, This isn’t over. Not until I say it is.

The drive feels endless. The city lights blur and vanish, replaced by stretches of dark road and thick, tangled woods pressing in from both sides.

My gut twists with every mile. I try to imagine what waits at the end of this ride—what Novikov will say, what he’ll do, whether I’ll even walk back out through those gates once I’m delivered like a trussed-up offering.

By the time the car finally slows, my hands are damp, knuckles white on my knees. The estate gates swing open, spilling yellow light onto the gravel, and the vehicle crawls up the drive to the house that’s haunted my dreams for weeks.

When the car stops, Zaika is already out, moving with casual arrogance.

One of the guards opens my door and I step out, head held high even as my stomach plummets.

Novikov himself is standing at the top of the steps, flanked by his men, the porch lights casting his shadow long and menacing across the stones.

They embrace like brothers, all backslapping and fake warmth. Novikov’s eyes flick to me, cold and glittering, and my heart sinks to my toes. They’re on the same side—at least for now.

“Zaika! My old friend, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Zaika laughs, the sound cold and practiced. “Had to come see for myself what’s worth all this fuss.” His gaze slides to me. “And bring you a lost package.”

My heart sinks so hard I feel dizzy. Their voices blur together, trading pleasantries.

All the hope I had that Zaika might be some kind of check on Novikov’s madness evaporates in the night air. My only value is in what they can trade for me—or do to me.

I try to keep my breathing even, the mask of indifference frozen on my face, but inside, every alarm in my body is screaming.

Gregor’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, steering me forward. I stumble up the front steps, forced into the yellow glare of the porch lights. Novikov steps down to meet me, his suit perfect, his face stretched into a smile I remember from childhood nightmares.

He takes my chin between his thumb and finger, tilting my face up, his grip just a little too firm. My stomach lurches and I have to swallow hard to keep from jerking away.

“My Katya,” he purrs, pretending at affection for the audience.

“I’ve missed you so much. When I heard you’d vanished, I thought your family must have kidnapped you in our old traditions.

” He clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“Imagine my surprise when they all claimed innocence. But here you are, come back to me. Come, my darling. I’m glad you are home. ”

I glare at him, refusing to flinch. I want to spit in his face. He doesn’t let go, squeezing just hard enough to remind me who’s in control.

He glances at Zaika, still wearing that painted-on smile. “Young brides. Always nervous, eh?”

Zaika’s eyes are cold and unreadable as he steps closer, his voice low and deadly. “Now that I’m here, I’ll stay for the wedding. My men will keep an eye on her for you—since she slipped from your grasp once already.”

Novikov’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he slips his arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him, holding me in place for everyone to see. Every cell in my body screams to break away, but I stay rigid, determined not to give either man the satisfaction.

Gregor yanks me toward the door, and as I stumble inside, I realize every path just led me right back to the cage I tried so hard to escape.

I square my shoulders, biting my tongue, and promise myself that if there’s even the faintest crack in this gilded prison, I’ll find it—before either of these men get what they want.