Page 83 of Never Distract a Biker

This time, I don’t give him a chance to recover. Instead of retreating or dodging, I charge straight at him, catching him off guard. The force of my punch slams into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

His eyes widen in shock as he stumbles backward, but he quickly recovers, his lips curling into a feral snarl.

“You’re going to regret that,” he growls, his voice low and venomous.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Not as much as you’ll regret targeting my family.”

“Your father also put up a pathetic fight.” An evil smile coils his lips as he leers at me. “You are not doing too bad yourself.”

Ignore the fucking idiot. He only wants you to lose focus.

As Vovka lunges forward again, I drop low, extending my right leg in a sweeping motion. The maneuver catches him off balance. I finish the move with a kick to his spine. His feet slip out from under him as he crashes to the ground.

A collection of gasps escapes his men, but I don’t let it distract me. Vovka recovers quickly, his fury evident as he scrambles to his feet.

Now he’s mad. Good. An angry opponent makes mistakes.

He slashes wildly, the blade catching my upper arm. Pain flares and warm blood trickles down, but I don’t let it slow me. Instead, I smile—a tight, humorless smile that I know will only infuriate him more.

“Think that’s funny?” Vovka growls, his eyes burning with rage.

He comes at me again, both knives aimed with deadly precision—one high, one low. When he is just inches away, I execute a quick pivot and he staggers past me.

This guy is fucking weak. His strength lies in guns. He has zero fighting skills and I could dodge him all night until he gets tired of chasing me around the makeshift arena. However, I sadly must bring this play to a close.

Vovka regains his footing, his eyes narrowing with predatory focus. He feints left, then darts to my right, his knife glinting dangerously. Before I can fully evade, I feel the sting of the blade slicing across my other upper arm.

Blood gushes from the wound, warm and sticky, trickling down to my elbow. Vovka smirks, his satisfaction evident as he holds up the bloodied knife. "You’re not untouchable, Makarov," he taunts, his voice filled with malice. “I’ll kill you and go on to have the autonomous power that I’ve always wanted.

I glance at the cut, acknowledging the pain but refusing to let it show on my face. Pain is a constant companion in this life—a reminder of battles fought and survived. I lock eyes with Vovka, letting him see the calm in my expression, the unshakable resolve that comes from years of hardship.

“You think that makes you dangerous?” I say, my voice steady, almost amused. “It makes you careless.”

His smirk falters for just a moment, doubt creeping into his eyes. I know his kind—men who thrive on fear and domination.

When they encounter someone who doesn’t flinch, their confidence wavers. And I intend to exploit that.

Vovka lunges again, this time with both knives aimed at my midsection. His movements are wild, fueled by anger and a desire to draw more blood. But anger makes him predictable, and predictability is a death sentence in a fight like this.

I time his approach perfectly, capturing his wrists in a firm grip just as the blades come within inches of my ribs. His eyes widen in surprise, and before he can react, I drive my forehead into his temple with brutal force.

The impact reverberates through my skull, leaving my vision momentarily blurred, but it’s worth it. Blood gushes from the gash in Vovka’s temple, trickling down the side of his face in crimson rivers. His grip on the knives slackens, and they clatter to the ground.

The crowd erupts with gasps and murmurs, the energy of the fight reaching a fever pitch. I don’t let up.

With Vovka disarmed, I seize the moment to drive my fist into his left rib with all the force I can muster. The sound of the impact is satisfying—a dull thud that reverberates through the space. Vovka stumbles backward, his body folding slightly as he clutches his side.

He tries to straighten, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, but I don’t give him the chance. I advance, delivering a punch to his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Get up,” I command, my voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t over until I say it is.”

Vovka glares up at me, his face a mask of pain and fury. But his struggle to rise is evident; his movements are slower, less coordinated. The fight is slipping from his grasp, and he knows it.

Desperation flashes across Vovka’s face as he looks past me to his men. “Kill them!” he roars, his voice raw and guttural. “Kill them all!” he shouts again at his men, his hand pressed to his ribs as he struggles to remain standing.

I expected this. I knew from the beginning that he wouldn’t honor the rules. Before the fight started, I gave Zasha a signal to be ready for anything.

Vovka looks around, waiting for gunfire that doesn’t come. His face twists in confusion, then panic, as he realizes his men are kneeling with their hands on their heads, surrounded and disarmed by mine.

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