Page 25 of Sexting the Bikers

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 thatmudakdo 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?”