Page 70 of Never Distract a Biker

The night air hits me with a briny chill, laced with the unmistakable tang of seaweed and salt. My eyes flicker around, catching glimpses of the expansive darkness, the moon reflecting off undulating waves in the distance. There's no mistaking the rhythmic lapping of water against what must be a dock and the distant creak of moored boats swaying gently. I'm by the sea.

His grip is unrelenting as he steers me towards an imposing structure, its vast silhouette a black void against the night sky. We pass under a flickering light, and my shadow stretches grotesquely across the gravel-strewn ground. The warehouse doors open before us, monstrous and gaping.

Inside, the air is thick and oppressive—smelling of oil, metal, and decay. A maze of crates and machinery casts eerie shadowsas if hiding sinister secrets within their depths. He doesn't pause, hauling me deeper into the belly of the warehouse, past shuttered windows that offer no glimpse of the outside world.

Then we arrive at something else—a small, isolated cubicle carved out of the surrounding chaos. It's like stepping into another world; one smaller, more confined, infinitely more terrifying. The stench that greets us is suffocating: the sharp, acidic reek of urine mixed with the stale odor of sweat.

It's too much. My stomach, already knotted with dread, revolts violently, and I double over, retching uncontrollably. My body expels everything, bile burning my throat, tears streaming from my eyes. This tiny space, this hovel of human misery, has stripped me of the last vestiges of composure.

His cruel laughter cuts through the thick air as he surveys my appalled expression. "I can see you have reservations about your new accommodation, Bambi," he sneers, the word 'Bambi' twisted into an insult by his mocking tone. His free hand motions dismissively towards a filthy bucket in the corner. "Well, this is about the best five-star treatment you are going to get from me." The implication is clear: I am less than nothing to him.

A wave of humiliation washes over me, merging with the nausea that still claws at my insides. My lips part to object, to retain some shred of dignity, but before a single word can escape, I am propelled forward. His shove is forceful, careless of my well-being, and I stumble into the grimy enclosure.

My knees buckle as I crash onto the hard floor, the world tilting dangerously. I'm covered in vomit, the acidic smell mingling with the foul odors already permeating the cubicle. Strands of my hair stick to my face, plastered there by the vile substance, as they flail wildly in every direction with the momentum of my fall.

Mortification burns hotter than the pain that radiates from where I've landed. I can feel his eyes on me, taking in my sorry state with a smirk. This is his power, his control—reducing me to this pitiful condition.

I claw my way to my feet, the world spinning as I narrowly avoid the makeshift potty. It's just a bucket, rusty and reeking, a mockery of sanitation. My foot slips, and I catch myself against the damp wall, my fingers tracing the grooves etched by countless others who've probably faced similar fates in this very spot.

A sob wrenches from deep within me, raw and ragged, as the door slams shut with a finality that echoes through the tiny space. It's pitch black now, the absence of light suffocating. I'm alone, truly alone, trapped in a place not fit for any human being.

Tears stream down my cheeks, hot against the cool air of the cubicle. They mix with the remnants of vomit, creating streaks of misery on my face. How could Viktor ever find me here? The thought circles in my mind, a vulture preying on the last shreds of hope. He doesn't even know where to start looking, and every second that passes carves a deeper despair into my heart.

I slide down to the floor, the cold concrete leeching the remaining warmth from my body. I hug my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, as if I could disappear from this nightmare. My sobs subside to whimpers, each breath a struggle against the weight of dread that crushes my chest.

Weakness creeps into my limbs, and tiredness wraps around me like a thick blanket. Everything that has happened—the fear, the pain, the betrayal—it all converges into a numbing fatigue that pulls at the edges of my consciousness. I'm about to give in to it, to let the darkness take me away from this hell when a sliver of light pierces the gloom.

The door creaks open again.

Rough hands seize me, dragging me out of the cubicle and into the harsh glare of warehouse lights. I squint against the brightness, my eyes adjusting to the sight of a circle of men. At their center stands a man with an aura of danger so palpable it raises the hairs on my arms. They call himpakhan, a title that drips with authority and fear. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixate on me as if I'm nothing more than a pawn in his cruel game.

"This is nothing personal," thepakhanbegins, his voice void of empathy. "But anyone tied to Viktor Makarov is a loose end. And loose ends," he says, drawing a finger slowly across his throat, "must be taken care of."

A shiver runs down my spine, the finality of his gesture hanging in the air like a guillotine blade poised to fall. My heart races,pounding against my ribs in frantic Morse code for help that won't come.

As thepakhan'sdecree echoes in the cavernous space, a shadow detaches from the wall of onlookers. My breath catches when a familiar figure steps forward into the light.

Marina!

What is she doing here? I know she is Russian, but she never goes back there, and I believe she has no ties back home. She’s never mentioned any family back in Russia so what is she doing here? Her presence is a gut punch, a betrayal that slices deeper than any knife thepakhancould wield.

"Marina?" I gasp, my voice breaking on her name. The look in her eyes does nothing to quell the rising panic within me. How did she become entangled in this web of violence? My mind races, seeking answers in her hardened gaze but finding none.

33

Viktor

"Security footage shows a grocery delivery van, no plates, just... vanished. But we're combing through everything,Pakhan—" Anton breaks off, his fear tangible even through the digital connection.

“I need you to go back and look at everyone who entered that bathroom after Scarlett was taken and follow them through the security camera.”

The voice begins to tremble with fear, and I cut him off. “Someone’s on his way, he would know what to do.”

There's no room for sentiment. Not when Scarlett's and my children’s lives are hanging in the balance.

I end the call, mind racing, plotting, planning. They've taken Scarlett, but they've also ignited a war they cannot hope to win. For her, for our unborn child, I will rain down hell itself.

I'm coming, Scarlett. Hold on.

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