Page 14 of Sexting the Bikers

He’s not done.

4

KATYA

The 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 somethingout 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?