Page 5 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

T he lieutenant steps into the kitchen, phone in hand and face tight, like whatever call he just took did not go the way he wanted.

“Let’s go,” he says to me, already turning away like this whole moment was just a detour, a mistake he’s been ordered to correct.

I follow without a word, too tired to argue, too wired to sit still. My boots echo on the marble steps as we climb, each one too clean, too polished—like they’re trying to cover up the rot underneath.

The hallway upstairs is silent and overly grand. Thick carpet muffles our steps, the wallpaper some kind of muted gold filigree that probably cost more than my aunt’s house. Everything smells like floor polish and old money. Not warmth. Not home.

He stops in front of a door, opens it, and gestures me inside.

The room is huge. High ceilings, carved crown moldings, and chandeliers I’m sure were stolen from some dead European heiress.

A bed the size of a small country sits under a gauzy canopy, and the windows stretch almost to the floor.

Heavy drapes, deep green and velvet, spill to the carpet like something out of a fairy tale—if the fairy tale ended with a girl locked in a tower waiting for an execution instead of a prince.

My luggage is already here. Of course it is. Neatly stacked near the dresser.

And hanging on the open wardrobe door like some kind of sick joke…is the dress.

Ivory satin. Beaded bodice. Hand-stitched lace.

The aunts poured weeks into it, whispering about my future like it was something to envy. Like being gifted to a man twice my age with blood on his hands and ice in his eyes was some kind of crown.

Now it just looks like a shroud.

I turn toward the lieutenant. “When’s dinner?”

He doesn’t even blink. Just pulls the door shut.

Hard.

I stare at it for a long second, then let out a short, dry laugh. Not even locked in, and I still feel caged.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress is soft, too soft, like it wants to swallow me whole.

My arms ache. My spine hums with exhaustion. I don’t remember the last time I slept.

My boots stay on. My jacket too.

I lie back anyway, eyes fixed on the high ceiling as it slowly goes out of focus.

Just for a minute, I think. Just long enough to breathe. And then sleep drags me under like a wave I’m too tired to fight.

When I wake up, the room is dim and still. The light outside the windows is fading—inky blue shadows stretching across the floor.

I sit up slowly, blinking the sleep from my eyes, throat dry. The chandelier overhead casts soft golden light, too soft, too quiet. I feel like I’ve missed something.

My phone buzzes faintly against the nightstand.

One message. Then another.

The screen lights up in my hand, and my stomach sinks the second I see the name.

Alexy: Hey Katya, I’m leaving. Where are you?

I blink, frowning. What the hell is he talking about?

The second message loads, and this one hits harder.

Alexy: He said I had to go. I’ll call you when I can.

My blood goes cold.

What?

I sit up straight, the blanket falling away, breath catching in my chest.

What does he mean, he had to go ? Novikov made him leave?

The timestamp reads over an hour ago.

I throw the blanket off and swing my legs to the floor, crossing the room in seconds. My hand wraps around the doorknob and twists hard.

It doesn’t budge.

I rattle it again, harder this time.

Still locked.

“What the hell is going on?” I whisper, panic rising under my skin like heat.

I slam my hand against the door. “Hey!” I shout, louder now. “Open this damn door!”

Nothing.

I pound again, harder. The walls seem to echo the sound back at me like they’re mocking me.

“Let me out!” My voice cracks. “Please—someone!”

Still nothing. Just silence.

I step back, chest heaving, palms sweaty. My legs feel shaky, like I’ve been dropped into cold water.

I pace. Back and forth, over and over again across the plush carpet that feels more like a trap than luxury now.

I hate this. I hate the tightness in my chest, the way my thoughts are racing. I hate how easy it is to lose control in here. The room is beautiful, expensive—designed to look like comfort—but it’s a cage, and I’m not just locked in.

I’m alone .

I stop in the middle of the room, my fists clenched, my eyes burning. “No,” I whisper to myself. “No. Breathe.”

I force myself to inhale, deep and slow, the way my uncle taught me during sparring. Like it’s just another opponent. Just another fight.

Control is survival.

“Breathe, Katya,” I say aloud.

The windows are locked too. Not just locked with the latch—sealed from inside. I tug, pull, press along the edges. Nothing gives. My breath fogs the glass as I lean my forehead against it, rage simmering just under my skin.

“Damn it,” I whisper. “How did I not notice this before?”

I curse myself under my breath, turning away, eyes sweeping the room with a different filter now—not for beauty or escape from panic, but for opportunity. Weak points. Cracks.

And then I see it.

An air vent, tucked high on the far wall near the armoire. The grate’s wide—maybe two feet across. My heart jumps. That’s enough.

I’m small. Petite. I’ve squeezed through tighter spaces for worse reasons. If I can just pry it open and get inside, I can scout. Get a better idea of the layout. Maybe even find a way out. But not now. Not in the fading evening light.

Nightfall. That’s when I’ll move.

Still…I need to know if it’s even possible.

Dragging the chair from the writing desk, I climb up and examine the vent. It’s old. Screwed in loosely. No alarm, no sensor I can see. I fetch a nail file from my luggage—thin, sharp—and get to work.

A few minutes later, the grate hangs loose.

I push it aside and slip in carefully, pressing my elbows tight to my ribs. The metal’s cold against my skin. It smells like dust and time and something faintly chemical—probably from whatever overpaid interior designer “sanitized” the ductwork.

I start to crawl.

The space is tight but manageable. My breathing echoes too loud in my ears. Every movement feels exaggerated, dangerous. But I keep going.

I’m just starting to ease around a turn when I hear voices.

I freeze.

The words echo softly, bouncing off the vent walls and filtering up from below.

My stomach drops. That has to be the study. The vent must run right above it. I inch forward slowly until I find a thin slit in the paneling—just wide enough to listen through.

Laughter.

And then I hear his voice.

Bakum Novikov.

Calm. Relaxed. Like he’s telling a joke over drinks with friends.

“Tomorrow morning,” he says, his tone smooth. “We gather them all—her uncle, her cousins, her precious little extended bloodline.”

Laughter again. Another voice I don’t recognize—deep and cruel. “All of them?”

“All of them,” Novikov says. “The girl’s the bait. We wipe the Riazanovs clean off the map. No one can survive, and you must ensure it, Henson.”

Something cold slides through my chest.

I stop breathing.

My entire body locks up, wedged in this metal coffin of a vent, limbs shaking, heart hammering against the steel.

I want to scream. I want to fall apart.

But I don’t.

I stay still. And I listen.

My hands are shaking. I don’t even realize it at first—my palms pressed flat to the vent walls, my knees locked, every muscle in my body wound so tight I could snap in half.

The words keep ringing in my ears.

The girl’s the bait.

My breath catches. I can’t swallow around the knot in my throat. My arms start to give out beneath me, and I have to inch backward, slow and careful, before the whole vent betrays me with a single echoing sound.

I slide back the way I came, fingers slipping against cold metal, legs cramping, lungs still too tight to pull in a proper breath.

It takes everything I have not to cry. Not to scream.

I reach the vent opening and pull myself out slowly. The grate clatters against the wall, and I flinch like I’ve set off a bomb.

I shut it. Sit. Lean against the edge of the bed. And for a long moment, I just stay there, staring at the floor.

The tears come slow—quiet, furious, hot as acid. I wipe them away with the sleeve of my jacket, again and again, like I can scrub the truth out of my face if I try hard enough.

They’re going to kill them.

All of them.

My family. Whatever that word is even worth anymore.

Not because they’re a threat. Not because they stood in Novikov’s way.

Because I walked through the front door.

Because I exist.

I drag in a ragged breath, reach for my phone, and flick the screen on.

Ten percent battery.

Of course.

Through the blur, I open the messages. Alexy’s name sits at the top, taunting me like he’s still somewhere nearby, like I didn’t just hear a room full of men toast to our bloodline being erased.

I type fast, fingers trembling:

Me: He’s going to do it. They need to leave. Tomorrow—it’s happening.

I hit send. The screen flickers.

And then I wait.

My eyes stay fixed on the thread, expecting a reply from Alexy, some confirmation that he got it—that he understands.

But the reply that comes isn’t his.

Unknown: Who is this?

I frown, confused.

That’s not right. Then another text follows, fast.

Unknown: You always text strangers this dramatically, or am I just lucky?

My breath catches.

That voice—smug, amused, cocky as hell.

Oh no.

I check the contact, fingers suddenly cold.

Dog. I texted Dog. Not Alexy.

I don’t even remember clicking his number. But it must’ve been the last one saved, the last one used. And now he has the message. Now he knows.

I stare at the phone like I can will the screen to break.

Another message pings through.

Dog: You good, Trouble? Because that didn’t sound like a party invite.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

But the messages keep coming.

Dog: You in danger? Say the word. I’ll crash whatever cage they’ve put you in.

I close my eyes, pulse thudding in my throat.

I shouldn’t trust him.

I don’t even know him.

But I type anyway.

Me: Don’t come here.

A pause. Then: