Page 60 of Never Distract a Biker

His lips twitch in a faint smile. "It’s not about need, Scarlett. It’s about making sure you have everything. No limits."

I turn the card over in my hand, its glossy surface catching the light. It’s a tangible reminder of who Viktor is—the kind of man who doesn’t just offer but gives, without question or hesitation.

"You don’t have limits, do you?" I say, half-joking, half in awe.

He leans in, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down my spine. "Not when it comes to you."

The words hit me harder than I expect, leaving me both exhilarated and unnerved. This is Viktor Makarov—dangerous, powerful, and undeniably captivating. And I’m tangled up in his world in a way that feels impossible to escape. The truth is, I do not want to escape; I am his willing captive.

This man, with his intensity and dominance, is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. He’s both my captor and my protector, my frustration and my desire. And now, he’s given me a glimpse of a world I never imagined—a world where anything is possible, but nothing is simple.

I trace the blank card, my heart pounding as I think about the future. About Viktor. About the lives growing inside me.

Whatever comes next, I know one thing for sure: there’s no turning back.

27

Scarlett

That night in bed, the room is quiet, the golden light of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on the walls. Viktor lies beside me, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. My eyes drift to the intricate tattoos that weave across his skin—dark, bold lines that form a story I don’t understand but desperately want to.

I trace a finger just above his chest, stopping short of touching the skull on a rose that seems to bloom and wither simultaneously.

“Viktor,” I whisper, my voice hesitant but curious.

He turns his head slightly, icy-blue eyes meeting mine. “Yes?”

“Your tattoos,” I say, gesturing to the ink that stretches across his chest and arms. “They’re ... striking. They feel like they have a story. What do they mean?”

Viktor shifts, propping himself up on an elbow. He doesn’t answer immediately; instead, he watches me as if deciding how much of his soul to bare.

“They’re not just ink,” he says, his voice low and reflective. “They’re a shield. A testament. They cover scars—bullet wounds, stab marks, burns. Every tattoo masks something I don’t want the world to see.”

My heart tightens. “So, each one represents something you’ve survived?”

He nods, his expression shadowed. “Take this one,” he says, gesturing to the glock inked onto his forearm. The barrel is aimed downward, a hand gripping the trigger. “It’s for the first time I took a life. I was seventeen and protecting my father. It’s a reminder of what I became that day.”

“And this?” I ask, pointing to the knife inked down his back, the blade jagged and cruel.

He exhales sharply. “That’s for the betrayal I’ve faced. The knife is for the wounds you don’t see—betrayals that cut deeper than any blade.”

I press my lips together, absorbing the gravity of his words.

He lies back down, staring at the ceiling. “But the story begins here,” he says, gesturing to a faded scar beneath the rose-skull tattoo on his chest. “On my eighteenth birthday.”

I shift closer, hanging onto his every word.

“It was supposed to be a celebration - my induction into the Bratva. My mother insisted on riding with me to the venue. She wanted to have those last few moments alone with her son before the world claimed me. But ...”

He pauses, his jaw tightening.

“We were ambushed. Gunfire erupted, the car windows shattered, and my mother ... she shielded me. Her body took the bullets meant for me.” His voice wavers, but he pushes on. “By the time it was over, she was gone, and I was barely alive.”

My hand flies to my mouth, tears stinging my eyes as I imagine the horror.

“They thought they’d killed me,” Viktor continues, his voice quieter now. “My father made sure of that. He staged my death, burying an empty casket beside my mother’s grave. The world mourned Igor Makarov’s son while I disappeared.”

“What did you do?” I ask, my voice trembling.

---