Page 7 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

BISHOP

I don’t like unanswered questions. And right now, one’s been missing for over forty minutes.

“Where the hell is Dog?” I mutter, checking my watch again, even though I’ve already done it twice in the last ten minutes.

He’s not in the garage. Not in the lounge. Not in the yard. Which means he’s either getting into trouble—or already neck-deep in it.

A couple guys are in the back, playing cards like they’ve got nowhere else to be, and Twitch is passed out in a chair with a half-lit smoke dangling from his fingers.

No sign of Dog.

“Anyone seen him?” I ask, not really expecting a straight answer.

One of the prospects shrugs. “He left an hour ago. Didn’t say where.”

Of course he didn’t.

I pull out my phone, check for a message, a missed call—nothing.

Typical.

I’m halfway to the garage when I hear it. The low, throaty growl of his engine in the distance. It’s a distinct sound, like a chainsaw flirting with a thunderstorm. Idiot never could leave the pipes alone.

I turn and walk back toward the front lot just as Reaper comes out the main door, already keyed up from the latest round of calls with the gunrunner who just backed out.

He sees me, reads my expression. “Dog?”

I nod.

Reaper’s already stepping onto the porch, his eyes narrowed. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from the way his jaw ticks that he feels it too. That something’s wrong.

The bike roars into view, headlights cutting across the gravel, engine barking loud as it swings into a hard stop near the front.

Dog throws a leg off casually like this is any other night. But he’s not alone.

She climbs off the back of his bike slowly, like her legs barely work.

She looks shaken—exhausted. Her hair’s a mess, there’s something smudged across her cheek, and she’s drowning in Dog’s jacket, wrapped around her shoulders like it’s armor.

That’s not just any girl. That’s Novikov’s girl.

And she’s not supposed to be here.

Reaper’s body goes rigid.

My own stomach drops. I step forward, quiet. “Tell me that’s not who I think it is.”

Dog drops his helmet onto the seat like this is just another ride.

“What the actual fuck,” I say, my voice low.

Dog peels off his gloves and grins, like he just brought home a stray puppy instead of the one girl who might get us all killed.

“Surprise,” he says.

Reaper doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “Everyone inside,” he says, low and controlled. “Now.”

No one argues. The porch clears out like the air just got sucked from the yard.

I stay. So does Reaper.

And Dog—dumb, fearless bastard that he is—walks forward like we’re the ones out of line. “She texted me,” he says, casual, as if that explains anything.

Reaper’s voice is quieter now, and that’s what makes it worse. “You brought someone out of Novikov’s house.”

Dog lifts his hands like we’re being dramatic. “She wasn’t safe. She reached out.”

Reaper steps off the porch, his boots hitting gravel hard and slow.

“She was in the house,” he says. “And you thought the best idea was to drive her here? With our name stitched across your back?”

“She’s not a threat,” Dog says defensively.

“You don’t know what she is,” I cut in, ice in every word. “We don’t know her name. We don’t know her story. All we know is she was in his house.”

Dog glances toward her then, and so do I. She’s still standing by the bike, quiet, small, too still.

“You brought her here. Alone. After I told you to stay the hell away,” Reaper says.

“You need to take her back,” I say flatly.

Dog stiffens. “No way.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t posture. Just says it like it’s not up for discussion.

I open my mouth to push again, but I don’t get the chance.

She speaks. Soft. Barely above a whisper.

“Please,” she says. “I’m cold.”

The three of us freeze. It’s the first thing she’s said since she got off the bike.

She clutches Dog’s jacket tighter around her shoulders, arms pulled in like she’s bracing against something we can’t see.

I look at Reaper. He looks at me. None of us say it aloud, but we all feel it— fuck.

We’re not heartless.

Even Reaper knows it.

He exhales through his nose and turns toward the door. Doesn’t say a word. Just walks inside like the floor might crack beneath him.

We follow.

The clubhouse is dead quiet when we step in. The air’s heavier somehow, like the building itself knows this was a mistake. No brothers loitering in the common room. No laughter from the back. Everyone’s either cleared out or gone upstairs.

Good. They know better.

Reaper walks ahead, Dog and the girl trailing behind.

She’s still shaking. Arms crossed tight, her fingers digging into the sleeves of Dog’s jacket like she’s bracing for impact. Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are somewhere far away.

We stop just past the lounge. Reaper turns.

“You had no right,” he says, voice low but lethal. “You put all of us in the crosshairs.”

Dog doesn’t flinch.

A better man would. But Dog’s not a better man. He’s just…Dog.

Reaper looks like he wants to put his fist through something. Maybe Dog’s skull.

I step forward slightly, nodding toward the girl.

She stays by the door, still wrapped in the jacket like she’s made of glass. She hasn’t sat down. Her legs are shaking.

I don’t mean to ask, but it comes out anyway. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes flick to mine—blue and haunting.

“You okay?” I ask again, quieter than before.

She continues to look at me but doesn’t answer. Just tightens her grip and pulls the jacket closer like she’s trying to disappear into it.

Reaper shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “She has to go,” he says again, firmer this time. “Tonight.”

I don’t answer.

Reaper’s jaw tightens. Dog’s arms are crossed, but he’s not backing down.

“You think you’re untouchable?” Reaper says. “You drag her in here, you lie about where you’ve been, and now what—you’re playing house?”

“I didn’t lie,” Dog shoots back. “She reached out. She needed help. You really think I’d leave her there after what she told me?”

Reaper steps forward. Just one step, but it’s enough to shift the gravity in the room.

“What she told you?” he echoes. “You trusting her now? Taking her word over mine?”

“She’s not just some pawn in Novikov’s game,” Dog snaps. “Her name’s Katya. She?—”

“Shut the hell up,” Reaper says.

I stare at the girl. She has a name now. I don’t know if that makes things worse.

Dog’s jaw tightens. Reaper’s fists curl like he’s one breath away from breaking something.

And then, out of nowhere, the girl speaks. “Do you have vodka?”

She says it quietly. Not flirty. Not afraid. Just matter-of-fact, like we’re not standing on the edge of a war.

Reaper turns to look at her—slow, like he’s not sure he heard right.

That stare of his could freeze someone in place, but she doesn’t flinch. She just drifts toward the bar, smooth and unbothered, fingers brushing her hair back as she walks.

Reaper looks at her like she’s grown a second head.

Dog jerks his chin toward a bottle sitting half-empty on the shelf.

She nods, steps behind the bar like she belongs there, and grabs a glass.

“I’m making myself a drink,” she says, not even looking up. “You want one?”

It’s not sweet. Not coy. Just matter-of-fact, like she’s asking if we want sugar in our coffee and not defusing a live grenade.

Dog smirks. Reaper’s jaw tightens.

Katya nods once. Her hands are steady. Measured. She pours like she’s done it a hundred times—no wasted motion, no nerves. Like this is a bar, and we’re just guys she happens to be charming.

I drift closer without meaning to, arms folded, watching her from a slight angle.

What game is this girl playing?

I narrow my eyes.

She doesn’t look like much—small, still wrapped in Dog’s jacket, boots dirty from whatever escape she clawed her way out of. There’s a tightness in her shoulders, sure, but she masks it well.

I watch her take a small sip, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. Her eyes flick toward Reaper, measuring him the way most people don’t dare.

Like he’s a man, not a monster.

Like she’s already decided who she has to charm, and who she has to outlast.

And me?

I still don’t trust her. But I’ll be damned if I’m not curious what her next move is.

I watch her pour herself a second shot, all calm hands and smooth lines like this is her stage and we’re just the crowd.

Hell of a performance. I’ll give her that.

“Pour me one too,” I say, voice even.

She doesn’t miss a beat. Just grabs a second glass, tops it off without asking how I take it. She knows better. Dog slides in beside me, leaning one elbow on the bar like he lives there.

“Same,” he says. “And none of that weak shit, princess. Hit me with the burn.”

She obliges.

Reaper stays back, near the doorway. Still. Watching. Sulking, if I’m honest. He hates this—being outmaneuvered in his own house. Hates that she shifted the heat. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her.

Katya lifts her glass, smooth as silk. “Tell me,” she says, glancing toward the three of us. “What did that mudak do to piss you off?”

The Russian’s thick, purposeful. She wants us to ask.

So I oblige. I raise an eyebrow. “That word. What does it mean?”

Her smile widens, slow and smug, the kind of expression that says she’s holding a knife behind her back and dares you to ask if it’s real.

“Oh, it has many meanings,” she purrs, swirling the glass before she drinks. “Asshole. Motherfucker. Turd. Ass. Shitass. Blockhead…”

She hits each word with over-the-top drama, smirking as she speaks, like she’s offering a punch line to a joke no one else is in on.

Dog barks out a laugh, damn near slapping the bar. Even I feel the corner of my mouth tug, against my better judgment.

Reaper doesn’t budge. Not even a twitch.

“You don’t need to know our business,” he says, voice like ice through glass.

Katya doesn’t blink. She just tilts her head, that wild mess of dark hair falling over one shoulder as she studies him.

“But my family is very influential,” she says softly. “Maybe they could help you.”

There it is. The opening move.

I lean back slightly, watching. Measuring. Always.

“And if they’re so influential,” I ask, voice cool, “why the hell were you in his house?”

“Politics,” she says. “I was supposed to marry him. But he’s a pig.”

Dog whistles low. “Damn.”

I don’t look away from her. I’m not done.

“If they’re that powerful,” I say, “why hand you over in the first place?”

That stops her. Just for a breath. A second. Maybe less.

But I see it.

The pause. The flicker behind the eyes. The part where the script runs out and she has to improvise.

She’s good. Real good.

But so am I.

The silence stretches. Too long. Long enough for the charm to wear thin. Long enough for the warmth in Katya’s eyes to flicker, just a little, like the mask’s getting heavy.

She knows how to hold a room. Knows how to throw smiles like daggers and use softness like armor. She’s calculating.

And right now, she’s stalling.

I lean against the bar, sip my drink, and wait. Not to be entertained—I’m not Dog.

Reaper’s done waiting.

“Dog,” he says, voice low but sharp enough to slice through concrete. “Outside. Now.”

Dog looks up, tension snapping across his shoulders.

Reaper doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. The weight behind it is enough to make the room feel colder. “You and I need to talk.”

Katya’s grip tightens on her glass, barely noticeable. Dog straightens up, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t argue.

He just nods once, slow and stiff, and follows Reaper toward the door.

I stay where I am, eyes still on the girl behind the bar.

Katya doesn’t waste a second. Her posture changes—barely, subtly—but I see it. The shoulders pull back, the line of her spine lengthens. Her fingers graze the rim of her glass a little slower. Her chin tilts just enough to catch the light across her cheekbone.

She’s not just pretty.

She’s dangerous.

And now I have her full attention.

She turns toward me with a kind of focused calm that would rattle a lesser man. Eyes sharp. Smile half-formed. The kind of look that promises a challenge, not a gift.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” she says, voice low, smooth, as if she’s commenting on the weather.

I meet her stare without blinking. “That a problem?”

Her lips twitch, almost a smirk. “Only if you bore easy.”

She says it like a dare, like she’s trying to crack something open.

I take a slow sip from my glass, watching her over the rim.

Her gaze follows every movement. She’s reading my reactions like she’s trying to pick a lock.

She leans closer, elbows resting on the bar now, chin lifted slightly, her expression equal parts coy and calculating.

“You’re quieter than the others,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, like she wants to see if I’ll flinch. “More observant.”

“I listen before I speak,” I reply, tone even. “It saves time.”

That earns me a smile. A real one.

“And you,” I say, letting the words stretch, “don’t seem nearly as shaken as you were ten minutes ago.”

“I adapt fast,” she murmurs.

Another pause.

She’s closer than she was before. Not touching. Not even brushing. But there’s something charged about the space between us—like stepping too far forward might detonate something we can’t take back.

I know this game. I’ve played it. Hell, I’ve designed it.

But Katya? She plays it like it’s instinct.

And the longer I sit here, the more I feel that line—the one between control and want—start to thin.

I lean in slightly, not much. Just enough to meet her where she is.

“You’re playing with fire,” I say quietly.

Her eyes don’t leave mine. “So are you.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s thick with heat. She’s studying me like she already knows I’ll crack, like she’s betting on it.

And for the first time since she walked into this place?—

I’m not entirely sure she’s wrong.