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18

Viktor

The heavy silence of my office presses against me as I sit at my table. Alina’s words echo in my mind, sharper than the finest blade in my collection.

“She’s carrying your child, Viktor. You can’t just lock her up and forget she exists.”

Her accusation had cut deep, not just because it was true, but because it struck at a part of me I didn’t want to face.

I’ve avoided Scarlett since the day she arrived here, choosing the comfort of my investigation over confronting the chaos she brings into my life. Yet, she’s impossible to ignore. Her fire and defiance stir something in me that I can’t quite name.

My thoughts drift to that night in my car, the feel of her soft skin beneath my hands, the way her steel-gray eyes locked onto mine with equal parts of fear and hunger. My brain conjures up the moment the tip of my shaft first met her soft entrance, and I groan with lust.

Pushing my chair back, I rise with a newfound determination. Guilt gnaws at the edges of my resolve, but the heat rising in me tempers it, urging me forward.

I roll up my shirt sleeves and stride toward the door, leaving behind the familiarity of my office for something far more uncertain. Scarlett’s presence in my home isn’t just a complication—it’s a responsibility. One I can no longer ignore.

The corridors of the mansion stretch before me, dark and silent except for the measured echo of my footsteps. My mind races with questions I’ve avoided for days. Why did Scarlett choose to strip? Was it desperation, ambition, or something else entirely?

The idea of her standing on a stage, exposed to leering men, fills me with an anger I can’t rationalize. She’s here now, under my roof, carrying my child. And yet, I know so little about her.

As I approach her door, I pause, my hand hovering over the polished wood. It’s a rare moment of hesitation for me, the Pakhan of the Makarov Bratva. What am I afraid of? Her anger? Her sarcasm? Or is it something deeper? Perhaps the way she makes me feel unsteady in a world I’ve built on control?

I take a deep breath and knock, the sound firm and deliberate. There’s no turning back now.

The door swings open, and there she is, standing barefoot and defiant in the soft glow of her room. Her eyes widen for a moment before narrowing, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

"Well, well," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "To what do I owe the honor? Gods don’t usually visit mortals."

Her sarcasm is sharp, but I find myself amused rather than irritated. She’s small, barely reaching my chest, yet she stands as if she’s ten feet tall.

Before I can say anything, she turns and walks back into the room. Leaving the door open—a silent invitation, or perhaps a challenge. I step inside, the room suddenly feeling smaller with both of us in it.

"I owe you an apology," I say. The words feel foreign on my tongue.

Scarlett spins around, her eyes wide with surprise. "What are you doing?"

“I’m trying to fucking apologize.”

She starts pinching the soft flesh of her palm until it reddens. "I need to wake myself up," she says with a dry laugh. "Gods don’t apologize to mortals. Even demigods don’t do it."

"And how would you know?" I ask, my amusement growing.

"I took a mythology class in school," she replies, her tone lighter now.

The unexpected humor eases the tension, creating space for conversation. "Did you have any family growing up?" I ask, steering the subject gently toward her past.

Scarlett hesitates, then nods. "I lost my dad when I was twelve; then it was just me and my mom. She worked herself to the bone to give me a good life. I started dancing because ... I needed to take care of her."

Her honesty is disarming, and I find myself drawn to her resilience. She’s a fighter, just like my sisters, just like me.

Her voice trembles as she speaks of her mother’s death, and I realize how much pain she’s been carrying alone. "I wasn’t stripping just for the money," she admits. "It was about giving her hope, even if it was on borrowed time."

The weight of her words settles over me, a stark reminder of my failures. I left her alone here, drowning in grief while I chased shadows in my father’s murder.

"I was the one who left the money in your locker," I say, watching her closely for her reaction.

Scarlett’s lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. "I figured it was you," she says. "No one else would’ve done something so ... dramatic."

Her humor catches me off guard, but it also bridges the distance between us, and the conversation takes a lighter turn as we sit. The tension gives way to a new fragile connection. "May I?" I ask, gesturing toward her belly.

Scarlett hesitates before nodding. "Okay, but don’t expect fireworks," she says, her voice tinged with nervousness and humor. “From what I’ve read online, the baby should be the size of an olive.”

My hand rests gently on her stomach, and the reality of her pregnancy strikes me in a way words never could. There’s life here—my life, our child.

Scarlett watches me closely, her gray eyes softening as I meet her gaze. In that moment, everything else fades away—the Bratva, the investigation, even my father’s murder.

Just as an invincible rope pulls my lips towards hers, the door bursts open, and Alina strides in, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene. "Oh," she says, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Did I interrupt something?"

I pull my hand back from her stomach, the spell broken. Scarlett shifts uncomfortably, her cheeks tinged with color.

"I’ve decided," I announce, turning to Scarlett. "You’ll move into my room."

"What? No!" Scarlett’s protest is immediate, her voice sharp with defiance.

"I want you where I can see you," I explain, my tone leaving no room for argument. "If you’re in my room, I can ensure your safety without running across the house every time I need to see you."

Scarlett glares at me, her fists clenched. "This is insane. You can’t just decide where I live!"

I step closer, my gaze steady. "I can, and I have."

As I step out of the room, I place a quick kiss on Alina’s cheek, ignoring her giggle. Scarlett’s stunned expression follows me, and I smirk to myself. This is just the beginning.