Page 44 of Never Distract a Biker

Before I can say anything, she turns and walks back into the room. Leaving the door open—a silent invitation, or perhaps a challenge. I step inside, the room suddenly feeling smaller with both of us in it.

"I owe you an apology," I say. The words feel foreign on my tongue.

Scarlett spins around, her eyes wide with surprise. "What are you doing?"

“I’m trying to fucking apologize.”

She starts pinching the soft flesh of her palm until it reddens. "I need to wake myself up," she says with a dry laugh. "Gods don’t apologize to mortals. Even demigods don’t do it."

"And how would you know?" I ask, my amusement growing.

"I took a mythology class in school," she replies, her tone lighter now.

The unexpected humor eases the tension, creating space for conversation. "Did you have any family growing up?" I ask, steering the subject gently toward her past.

Scarlett hesitates, then nods. "I lost my dad when I was twelve; then it was just me and my mom. She worked herself to the bone to give me a good life. I started dancing because ... I needed to take care of her."

Her honesty is disarming, and I find myself drawn to her resilience. She’s a fighter, just like my sisters, just like me.

Her voice trembles as she speaks of her mother’s death, and I realize how much pain she’s been carrying alone. "I wasn’t stripping just for the money," she admits. "It was about giving her hope, even if it was on borrowed time."

The weight of her words settles over me, a stark reminder of my failures. I left her alone here, drowning in grief while I chased shadows in my father’s murder.

"I was the one who left the money in your locker," I say, watching her closely for her reaction.

Scarlett’s lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. "I figured it was you," she says. "No one else would’ve done something so ... dramatic."

Her humor catches me off guard, but it also bridges the distance between us, and the conversation takes a lighter turn as we sit. The tension gives way to a new fragile connection. "May I?" I ask, gesturing toward her belly.

Scarlett hesitates before nodding. "Okay, but don’t expect fireworks," she says, her voice tinged with nervousness and humor. “From what I’ve read online, the baby should be the size of an olive.”

My hand rests gently on her stomach, and the reality of her pregnancy strikes me in a way words never could. There’s life here—my life, our child.

Scarlett watches me closely, her gray eyes softening as I meet her gaze. In that moment, everything else fades away—the Bratva, the investigation, even my father’s murder.

Just as an invincible rope pulls my lips towards hers, the door bursts open, and Alina strides in, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene. "Oh," she says, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Did I interrupt something?"

I pull my hand back from her stomach, the spell broken. Scarlett shifts uncomfortably, her cheeks tinged with color.

"I’ve decided," I announce, turning to Scarlett. "You’ll move into my room."

"What? No!" Scarlett’s protest is immediate, her voice sharp with defiance.

"I want you where I can see you," I explain, my tone leaving no room for argument. "If you’re in my room, I can ensure your safety without running across the house every time I need to see you."

Scarlett glares at me, her fists clenched. "This is insane. You can’t just decide where I live!"

I step closer, my gaze steady. "I can, and I have."

As I step out of the room, I place a quick kiss on Alina’s cheek, ignoring her giggle. Scarlett’s stunned expression follows me, and I smirk to myself. This is just the beginning.

19

Scarlett

My eyelids flutter open, and I'm greeted by a ceiling that's not mine. It's a vast expanse of white, trimmed with gold detailing so intricate it could belong in a museum. For a moment, disorientation grips me like a vice. Where am I? The question spirals through the fog in my mind, but then it all clicks — Viktor's bedroom. His scent lingers in the air, a mix of cologne and something distinctly him, a reminder of my captor turned ... what? Protector?

I sit up, taking in the opulence around me. The suite is a masterpiece of dark luxury, with every piece of furniture designed to intimidate and impress. Heavy velvet drapes block the morning light while a grand chandelier looms overhead like a watchful guardian. But none of this splendor can ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

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