Page 17 of Sexting the Bikers

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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. Nowheknows.

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