Page 15 of Sexting the Bikers
The second message loads, and this one hits harder.
Alexy:He said I had to go. I’ll call you when I can.
My blood goes cold.
What?
I sit up straight, the blanket falling away, breath catching in my chest.
What does he mean,he had to go? Novikov made him leave?
The timestamp reads over an hour ago.
I throw the blanket off and swing my legs to the floor, crossing the room in seconds. My hand wraps around the doorknob and twists hard.
It doesn’t budge.
I rattle it again, harder this time.
Still locked.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper, panic rising under my skin like heat.
I slam my hand against the door. “Hey!” I shout, louder now. “Open this damn door!”
Nothing.
I pound again, harder. The walls seem to echo the sound back at me like they’re mocking me.
“Let me out!” My voice cracks. “Please—someone!”
Still nothing. Just silence.
I step back, chest heaving, palms sweaty. My legs feel shaky, like I’ve been dropped into cold water.
I pace. Back and forth, over and over again across the plush carpet that feels more like a trap than luxury now.
I hate this. I hate the tightness in my chest, the way my thoughts are racing. I hate how easy it is to lose control in here. The room is beautiful, expensive—designed to look like comfort—but it’s a cage, and I’m not just locked in.
I’malone.
I stop in the middle of the room, my fists clenched, my eyes burning. “No,” I whisper to myself. “No. Breathe.”
I force myself to inhale, deep and slow, the way my uncle taught me during sparring. Like it’s just another opponent. Just another fight.
Control is survival.
“Breathe, Katya,” I say aloud.
The windows are locked too. Not just locked with the latch—sealed from inside. I tug, pull, press along the edges. Nothing gives. My breath fogs the glass as I lean my forehead against it, rage simmering just under my skin.
“Damn it,” I whisper. “How did I not notice this before?”
I curse myself under my breath, turning away, eyes sweeping the room with a different filter now—not for beauty or escape from panic, but for opportunity. Weak points. Cracks.
And then I see it.
An air vent, tucked high on the far wall near the armoire. The grate’s wide—maybe two feet across. My heart jumps. That’s enough.
