Page 47 of Never Distract a Biker

My thoughts spin a carousel of what-ifs and maybes. This isn't just a kiss. It's a crossing of lines, a breaking of barriers. It's giving in to the storm that's been brewing since the moment he took me from my life into his world—a world of shadowed corners.

His eyelids flutter—a nearly imperceptible motion—and I know. I know that the fall is inevitable. We're not two people anymore; we're bound by a magnetic pull, and neither one of us can escape.

Viktor’s lips brush mine without quite touching, a tease, a test, a torment. My body leans into his, betraying my inner turmoil. It's a dance, a prelude to the passion that threatens to consume us both.

Without warning, he stops abruptly and walks away.

As I watch him leave, tears of sexual frustration fall down my eyes.

20

Viktor

Zasha speeds me toward another Makarov property, where professional matters await. But it's not business that consumes my thoughts—it's Scarlett.

Her image intrudes, unbidden but not unwelcome. Sweet, feisty Scarlett with eyes that burn green like spring grass and see right through me. She's a melody in a world of discordant notes, and I've become an unwilling captive to her tune. My chest tightens at the thought of her feeling weak from the life growing inside her. A life that I have put in there.

My body still feels the strain from holding back from her yesterday. The cold show did nothing to subside my raging desire.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, a war waging within me. To protect her means to keep her close, but every inch of space I share with Scarlett tears at the fabric of the walls I've built around my heart. A mafia lord isn't afforded the luxury of love; love is leverage against me.

The car rolls to a stop outside the nondescript building—a fortress masquerading as a derelict warehouse. I step out, and the change in my personality is instant. Where I’d been burning with passion a second ago, is now replaced with cold hardened. Emotion recedes like the tide going out, leaving behind the cold, hard shore of necessity. This is the Viktor Makarov I’m familiar with. The one who’s in his element when it comes to taking out his adversaries.

With each step toward the entrance, I feel lighter even with the weight of the gun against my side. The steel door closes behind me with a resounding thud, there’s no room for sentiment.

We descend the stairs, the dim lighting casting shadows that dance along the walls like spectators. This place is where consequences are delivered, where debts are paid in pounds of flesh.

At the bottom, I pause, allowing the chill of the basement to seep into my bones. My nostrils flare at the coppery hint of blood lingering in the air. The stark fluorescent lights hum above, merciless in their exposure of every grim detail.

"Here he is,Pakhan."Lev's voice cuts through the silence, a little too excited for the job he’s handling.

"Speak," I say, walking in like an avenging angel, cloaked not in wings but in tailored darkness. "And it better be worth the air you're wasting."

The captive sits slumped in a chair, his breathing ragged, and his swollen eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. I stride closer, each step measured and deliberate. His good eye latches onto me, and his pupils dilate like those of a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He quickly looks away, his eyes landing pleadingly on Zasha.

"Look at me," I command. The authority in my voice leaves no room for defiance.

He obeys, though his body trembles, sweat beading on his forehead. I lean down, our faces inches apart, and I see it—the raw fear, the understanding that I hold all the cards.

"Talk," I say simply. My tone doesn't rise, but the threat is implicit, hanging between us heavier than chains.

"Please ... I'll tell you everything," he stammers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Good." I nod, straightening up. "Because you wouldn’t want me to pry the truth out of you."

He spills everything, voice quivering, words tripping over each other in his haste. "The club manager, he's in deep, deeper than we thought. Was the stripper ..." His sentence faltersincoherently, eyes darting between my men and me, pleading for some mercy.

"Spit it out," I command, my patience fraying like a worn rope.

"The manager had said that there is a stripper who has some serious connections in the underworld.”

“And?”

“And she has the body and wit to bring down the high and mighty.”

“And?”

She's not dancing anymore, she's ..." He swallows hard as if tasting the bile of his betrayal. "She's climbing ranks, fast. Got protection from someone high up."

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