Page 23 of Sexting the Bikers

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

“She wasinthe 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’tknowwhat 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 inhishouse.”

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.