Page 50 of Never Distract a Biker

"Sleep," he murmurs, tracing idle circles on my skin. It's not a command, not really. It's an invitation, a promise of safety, of warmth.

I close my eyes, letting the sensation lull me deeper into this bubble where only we exist. Viktor's presence is a fortress, and within these walls, I allow myself the luxury of rest.

"Stay," I mumble, half-dreaming, clutching at his arm.

"Always," he assures, his voice as solid as the arms that wrap around me.

The world outside fades away as slumber takes me under, Viktor's heartbeat a lullaby that sings of dark beginnings turned to unexpected refuge, of dangers shared and trust hard-earned. And in his embrace, I find an unlikely harbor, a respite from storms both within and without.

22

Viktor

The sleek black sedan pulls into the private hospital's gated entrance. This isn’t an ordinary hospital—it’s a fortress hidden behind walls of privilege and power. I step out first, scanning our surroundings, and then extend a hand to Scarlett. She hesitates briefly before accepting, her palm warm and trembling in mine. Her belly is still small, but the weight of what it carries is monumental.

Inside, the hospital's polished marble floors gleam under the soft glow of chandelier lights. The staff, clad in crisp white uniforms, bow their heads slightly as we pass. They don’t just work here—they belong to us. Subtle nods of recognition and unspoken loyalty surround us. Scarlett clutches my arm tighter, her eyes darting around.

“Does everything in this city belong to you?” she whispers, her voice tinged with disbelief.

I glance at her and smirk. “Everything that matters.”

She exhales sharply, shaking her head as if trying to process it all.

The head doctor rushes to greet us before we even make it to the reception desk. He’s a middle-aged man with silver hair and an air of calm authority. “Dobro pozhalovat', Miss Wood,” he says warmly, his Russian accent thick. Scarlett offers a nervous smile, her hands resting protectively on her belly.

Her gaze shifts to me, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “Is there any door you can’t open?”

I chuckle, low and deep. “No.”

The doctor gestures for us to follow, leading us down a hallway lined with private rooms and guarded by silent men in suits. I keep my hand on the small of Scarlett’s back, steering her protectively. Her steps are hesitant but steady, and her eyes flicker between curiosity and caution.

The examination room is pristine, the fain noise of the ultrasound machine breaking the quiet. Scarlett lies back on the cushioned table, her shirt lifted just enough to expose her midriff. I stand at her side, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“Do you know how far gone you are?”

“About ten weeks or so, I was told by the last doctor that pregnancy is often dated two weeks before the actual conception.”

“That’s true.”

The doctor spreads the gel across her skin and places the wand against her belly. The screen flickers to life, and a grainy black-and-white image begins to form. Scarlett's fingers clutch the edge of the table, her breathing shallow.

“Everything looks good,” the doctor says, his voice steady.

Scarlett lets out a shaky breath, her tension easing slightly.

“Hold on. I think I see a second gestational sac.” He probes harder with the wand, and I watch Scarlett flinch, but her eyes never leave the screen.

“There’s definitely a second sac.”

“What?” Scarlett’s voice breaks, her eyes wide with shock.

“Twins,” the doctor confirms, smiling.

Scarlett's hand flies to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Twins?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“And according to both fetuses' crown to rump length, you are eleven weeks pregnant.”

I freeze, the weight of the news slamming into me like a freight train. My chest tightens, and without thinking, my hand moves to cover hers. I can feel her pulse racing beneath my palm.

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