Page 46 of Never Distract a Biker

I watch, leaning on the counter for support, as Viktor moves with quiet efficiency. He's a symphony of controlled movements, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them seamlessly. The mundane task seems out of place with the image of the powerful mafia lord I know him to be.

"Can't have you going hungry," he says, almost to himself. The stove clicks, and a pan sizzles to life. I'm struck by the oddity ofthis moment — Viktor Makarov, billionaire mafia lord, cooking breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Sit." It's not a command but an invitation. I slide onto a stool, watching as he cooks omelets with a dedication that speaks volumes. He doesn't speak much, and neither do I, but the silence between us feels full.

Viktor dishes the food with a flourish, setting one plate before me. His blue eyes capture mine across the expanse of gleaming wood, intense and unreadable. I pick up my fork, my hand trembling slightly. The first bite is hesitant, a test against my unsettled stomach.

"Good?" he asks, and there's a hint of something like vulnerability in the question. As though he is waiting for my approval.

"Very," I manage, and it's true. The simplicity of the meal and the care behind it all comes together perfectly on my palate.

We eat with minimal words, but each glance carries a conversation. I chew slowly, taking in the man opposite me. Viktor's attention never wavers, his gaze occasionally dropping to my still-flat abdomen, then back to my face.

"Scarlett," he begins, breaking the charged silence. His voice is soft, so unlike the hard edge I've come to associate with him. "You need to see a doctor."

I nod, with my mouth full, and feel my face burning from the intensity of his gaze. There's no escaping this connection, this unspoken bond that pulls tighter with every shared look, every careful gesture.

And though I'm trapped in this lavish prison with a man who's both my captor and unexpected caretaker, I find myself caught in the gravity of his orbit, unable to look away.

Done with my food, I push the chair back, the sound grating against the marble floors. My body feels heavy with nourishment and an unspoken need to move. To prove I'm not as fragile as my condition suggests, I lift my plates to carry them to the sink, but he beats me to it.

"I can clean up after myself," I insist, but Viktor's already around the table, his hands firm on my elbows.

"Let me," he says, and there's no room for argument in that deep voice that seems to rumble from the very walls of his mansion.

I open my mouth to protest again, but the look in his blue eyes silences me. It's not just a command I see there; it's a fierce kind of care that confuses and warms me all at once.

“I’ll take care of those later.”

I nod, submitting to his support, and his arms slide effortlessly beneath my knees and back. In an instant, I'm lifted into the air, the world tilting slightly as I'm cradled against his chest. My hands instinctively go around his neck.

We move through the corridor slowly, each step measured and deliberate. His heartbeat is steady against my ear, a grounding rhythm in the vastness of his home. The closeness is intimate, too much so, and a warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the weather.

"Viktor," I whisper, but he only tightens his hold, as if he's afraid I'll shatter.

"Shh," he murmurs. His breath fans my hair, and I close my eyes against the swirl of emotions.

At the threshold of the bedroom, he stops. Hesitation flickers across his face, a crack in the stoic mask he wears so well. His hands linger on my hips, heavy and warm. I catch my breath, sensing the shift in the air between us. The moment stretches, taut as a wire.

"Scarlett," he breathes out raggedly, and my name is a prayer, a curse, a promise all at once.

His eyes search mine, seeking permission, or perhaps offering it. I'm suddenly aware of how small I am in his embrace, yet how powerful this moment feels. There's a question in his gaze that goes deeper than the words we've left unspoken.

Viktor's head dips lower, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my neck. A shiver runs down my spine, not from cold but from being so close to him. His presence envelops me, a cocoon of heat and unspoken promises. Inside, my heart races, pounding out a rhythm that matches the ticking of thegrandfather clock in the hall. I can't look away from his intense blue gaze, so full of dark oceans and hidden depths.

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice, but it's lost, drowned by the thrumming desire that ripples through me. My body responds to Viktor's nearness, every nerve ending alive and on fire. Rational thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, leaving only this visceral need, this hunger that goes beyond appetite. I'm aware of everything—his scent, the solid strength of his arms, the heat radiating from his skin. My core becomes moist, and I rub my tights together.

His head tilts, a fractional movement bringing his lips dangerously close to mine. My breath hitches, my heart a drumbeat loud in my ears. I can almost taste him—power and danger mixed with an intoxicating hint of mint.

"Are you afraid?" he asks, his breath warm against my skin.

"Should I be?" It's a challenge, a flicker of the feisty spirit he's awakened in me. But it's weak, half-hearted, drowned out by the roaring in my veins.

His chuckle is a low sound that vibrates through me. "Yes," he eyes me, and there's a rumble in his voice that says I should be running in the opposite direction. But instead, it sends delicious shivers down my spine. “You should be afraid of the things I want to do to you.”

Pleaseeee do them. I permit you to do them. No, I order you to do those things and more.

Time stands still. His lips hover mere inches from mine, the distance insurmountable yet trivial. A paradox that ties my stomach in knots. The anticipation is a living thing, a serpent coiled and waiting to strike.

---