Page 36 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

REAPER

E ngines roar and grass tears under spinning tires as we surge onto the estate. I throttle down, scanning for red flashes of Novikov’s men. They pour out of the building in a tangled wave, guns out, shouting over each other. The order they brag about vanishes the moment real chaos arrives.

Zaika strides among them, face dark with anger, barking commands no one seems to follow.

Shots crack through the night, bright muzzle flashes lighting frantic faces.

My brothers spread wide, working in pairs, cutting off flanks before the Bratva can regroup.

Years of training show in every movement, precision where Novikov’s men have only panic.

I should feel cold focus, the way I do on any run, but tonight another pulse beats under the surge of adrenaline. Katya. My gaze skims the melee for a flicker of red silk, the tilt of her chin, anything to tell me she’s still on her feet. Every second I can’t see her twists tighter inside my chest.

I push deeper, bike snarling beneath me, eyes locked on the doors.

I know Novikov’s habits, know he’ll keep her close until the last possible instant.

I tell myself I’m here for the club, for the Ravagers, but the truth burns clear.

I’m here for her, and I won’t leave this ground without Katya in my arms.

The instant I spot Katya breaking through the doorway, my heart stutters.

She moves like a flare in that red silk, desperate but fierce, and for a moment all the noise fades.

Two of Novikov’s goons grab her arms, yanking her back.

I tighten my grip on the throttle, wanting to tear across the lawn, but fury will not keep her safe. I force myself to stay still, to think.

Novikov steps forward, smugness written on every line of his face. “You’re outnumbered, Reaper,” he calls, spreading his hands as if he’s already won.

I let the engine idle and lift my left hand, palm up, signaling Bishop.

The estate floodlights reflect on my glove.

One breath. Two. A single shot cracks the night.

The bullet slices past Novikov’s ear, close enough to lift a strand of his hair.

Stone chips explode from the pillar behind him.

Silence ripples outward as every man on the lawn realizes what just happened.

Novikov flinches, hand flying to his head. His smirk slips. The barrel of his pistol lowers a fraction.

“That’s Bishop with a rifle,” I say, voice calm, almost conversational. “I taught him myself. You wouldn’t believe my kill ratio.”

A tremor of fear flickers in Novikov’s eyes. Behind him, Katya’s lips tilt in the smallest, fiercest smile. She believes. She always did.

“I would,” she calls, voice steady even with the guards gripping her arms.

That pride in her tone kicks my pulse higher. I grin back, letting Novikov feel how sure I am.

I swing my gaze to Novikov, let every ounce of threat settle on him. “Now. Deliver my man. Right now.”

He hesitates, weighing odds. Bishop’s second shot slams into the dirt at his feet, a precise warning. Novikov’s resolve falters. He snaps an order in Russian.

Two of his men disappear into the shadows near the house. A tight knot pulls in my gut. Every second feels stretched, crackling with tension. Then they re-emerge, hauling Dog between them.

He’s bloodied and bruised, shirt clinging dark with dried stains.

One eye is swollen shut, but that trademark grin is plastered across the other half of his face like a dare.

He limps, boots scuffing the grass, yet he forces his shoulders back, refusing to look beaten.

The guards yank him forward by the arms, but he drags his feet just enough to make them struggle—one last bit of stubborn pride.

Katya’s breath hitches. I see her body lean toward him, the red dress rustling in the night air.

She reaches out before she can stop herself, but Novikov yanks her back, a possessive hand on her arm.

Rage flashes through me. I keep my focus on Dog, counting each step, waiting for the moment he’s close enough to pull behind our line.

Dog lifts his head, spots me on the bike, and gives a bloody wink. That spark in his eye tells me he’s still in the fight, even if his body is wrecked. The guards try to shove him faster, but Dog digs in again, forcing them to manhandle him the last few yards.

When they’re ten paces away, I lift my voice so every soul in the courtyard hears it.

“That’s far enough.” My brothers close ranks on either flank, throttles rumbling deep and threatening.

Bishop’s rifle cracks once more, blowing the top off a marble planter near Zaika’s polished shoes. Dust spumes into the air.

Zaika’s gaze snaps to me, cold and assessing. I angle the bike so he has a clear view of the muzzle pointed at his chest. “Don’t try anything clever,” I tell him, voice low and steady. “We have you exactly where we want you.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but he doesn’t move. Novikov’s men freeze, waiting for a cue that doesn’t come. Katya’s guard loosens his grip, uncertain now, eyes flicking to the rooftops in search of Bishop’s unseen barrel.

I jerk my chin at Dog’s captors. “Let him go.” They share a glance, then shove him forward.

He stumbles, catches his balance, and limps the remaining steps until he reaches the circle of bikes.

Rooster hops off his ride to haul Dog behind our line, Twitch already moving in with gauze and a bottle of water.

The air is thick enough to choke on. Novikov’s smirk falters as he realizes the tables have turned. Zaika’s posture stiffens, weighing the odds.

I look Dog over. “Tell me why I should save your raggedy ass.”

Dog coughs, then grins. “I’m one hell of a security man?” He pushes himself up, swaying a little but keeping the grin that’s always rubbed people the wrong way—just enough swagger to make you forget he’s bleeding.

Novikov shifts like he’s tasted something bitter. Katya’s still boxed in by his men, red dress rippling in the night breeze, arms held behind her back with the rough grip of the men. Her chin is high—brave, reckless, and so damned beautiful it scrapes something raw inside my chest.

I lift a brow at Novikov. “Pretty decent trade so far. But you’re still holding royal treasure that belongs to me.”

Katya’s eyes flick to the trees crowding the estate, where Bishop’s position should be invisible, yet Novikov’s men keep glancing that way, twitching whenever a far-off neon sign stutters. Good. Let them believe the ghost in the dark can pick them off whenever he likes.

Novikov opens his mouth—calculated condescension—but I cut him off, turning slightly to address the Pakhan. “You seem to be the more reasonable one, if I’m not wrong. Bishop’s dot is sitting on that pretty face of yours, and my patience, in case you’ve forgotten, is on life support tonight.”

A muscle jumps along Mikhail’s jaw; his finger eases away from the trigger guard. Good bunny.

I swing off the bike, boots thudding on cracked asphalt, and the world narrows to the slice of space between Katya and me. Novikov’s goons still bracket her, thick hands clutching her elbows, but her chin is tilted like she owns the night.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask her. My voice comes out low, a rumble that starts somewhere near my spine. The knife spins once between my fingers, catching the broken floodlight’s twitching glare.

“Getting married,” she answers, mouth curling into a smile that’s half-sweet, half-suicidal.

A laugh I don’t feel slips past my teeth. “Yeah, no.” I pace forward while the muzzle of Mikhail’s pistol tracks me. Doesn’t matter. My eyes stay locked on hers. “Did you get my permission for that little life choice?”

Her lashes sweep down, then up. “No, Reaper.”

“Thought so.” The knife stops spinning; I point the tip at Novikov. “I’m feeling generous. Let the bride come over here and nobody loses an eye tonight.”

Katya arches a brow, daring me. “You telling me I need your blessing to walk down the aisle?”

“I’m telling you nobody walks anywhere unless I say so.” I grin, slow and deliberate. “Besides, we both know you prefer black leather to white lace.”

That gets the faintest flush at her throat. Novikov notices and sneers; I file that away for later punishment.

Katya rolls her shoulders against the men holding her. “You planning to crash every engagement I accept?”

“Only the ones that don’t involve me.” I shift my weight, letting the knife’s edge gleam. “Come here, princess. Time to run away from your own damn wedding.”

She bites her lip—pink against the harsh lights—then flicks her gaze to Novikov. “He never did learn etiquette,” she sighs.

“Etiquette is for people who can’t shoot straight,” I tell her, stepping closer. Two yards now.

Novikov jerks, hand half-raised like he might yank Katya back, but Bishop’s report cracks across the yard again and a fragment of concrete kisses his cheek.

He freezes, swallowing whatever threat he meant to spit.

I don’t even glance at the rooftop; I just let the echo roll through the dark while I keep my gaze on Katya, palm open, inviting, inevitable.

“That’s still Bishop,” I say, voice barely more than smoke. “And trust me, big man—his next shot finds a home.”

Novikov’s boots don’t move, yet the fear behind his eyes scurries for cover.

The goons at Katya’s elbows falter, grip loosening the way ice thaws under a torch.

She exhales, a single measured breath, and then she glides forward, silk against storm-torn steel, slipping past the slack arms that seconds ago held her hostage.

When her fingers slide into mine the contact is white-hot, a live wire straight to the chest, and the world tilts until all I taste is citrus soap and adrenaline.