The Poolside Entrance

The sun hung high over Viktor Engel’s lavish estate, the morning light bouncing off the shimmering blue water of his infinity pool. The air was thick with the scent of expensive colognes, sunscreen, and fine champagne, blending with the sound of light laughter, clinking glasses, and distant music.

And then—Lara Croft emerged.

Dripping. Glorious. Impossible to ignore.

She rose from the pool like a goddess stepping from the sea, water cascading down her toned, muscular body, her green bodysuit clinging to her curves like a second skin. The fabric was slick, glistening in the sunlight, hugging her D-cup breasts and the sculpted lines of her waist and hips. Every step up the pool ladder was slow, deliberate, the kind that made men stare and women instinctively adjust their posture.

And stare they did.

Even the staff—almost exclusively German—paused in their duties, their trained indifference momentarily breaking. The women exchanged knowing glances. The guards—ruthless, disciplined killers—shifted uncomfortably, suddenly unsure where to look.

But Viktor Engel?

He didn’t just look.

He devoured her with his eyes.

Lara noticed everything about him in that first moment.

Seated on a luxurious poolside daybed, dressed in an unbuttoned white shirt and linen pants, Viktor was younger than she expected—lean, pale, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he rarely slept. His body was not muscular, nor imposing, but he had presence.

And those strange dark circles under his eyes—not just exhaustion, but something else. His skin bore odd, faint patterns, like the lingering touch of a sickness or something more unnatural.

He exuded a kind of casual, lazy dominance, lounging as if everyone here existed solely for his amusement.

And yet, for the first time that morning, he sat up.

His butler, an older, imposing man with grey hair and the build of a warrior past his prime, was the only one who remained utterly composed.

He stepped forward, offering Lara a towel.

“Lady Croft.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Not "miss." Not "madam." Lady.

He knew.

Of course he did.

Lara accepted the towel with a slow, deliberate smirk, dabbing the water from her exposed collarbones, letting droplets trail between her cleavage before patting her toned thighs. She made a show of it—not obvious, not ****, just… enough.

Enough to make Viktor shift in his seat.

Enough to make him watch.

“And you are?” she asked, voice smooth.

“Baumann,” the butler answered, giving the smallest incline of his head. “I oversee the estate.”

Not a single wasted word. This was a man who had been around powerful, dangerous people his entire life.

Viktor’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk as he waved a hand, dismissing the butler without a word. Baumann stepped back, ever the professional, but his steel-colored eyes lingered on her.

A warning.

He’s watching me.

Good. Let him.

Lara turned her gaze back to Viktor, who was still watching her, his sharp, pale blue eyes filled with a mixture of intrigue and something darker.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, stepping closer, her wet skin still glistening in the sun.

He tilted his head, eyes sweeping over her.

“No,” he said, voice smooth, accented. “But I think I like you already.”

The Art of Flirting with a King

Lara took a seat on the edge of his daybed, close enough that he could smell the chlorine on her skin, the faint trace of her perfume underneath.

Other women surrounded them—his entourage, his pets. Some were seated on his lap, others draped over expensive chairs, their bodies glistening from oils and sunbathing.

They watched Lara like vultures, some jealous, some amused.

One of them, a blonde in a red bikini, gave her a pointed look.

"You must be new," the girl purred, stretching out her long legs. "Viktor doesn’t usually entertain strangers."

Lara barely spared her a glance. "Then maybe I’m not a stranger."

Viktor laughed softly—a low, indulgent sound.

"You’re bold," he murmured, reaching for his glass of whiskey. He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers. "I like that."

Lara leaned in, her lips dangerously close to his ear, but not touching.

"Good," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. "Because I don’t do weak men."

His fingers tightened around the glass.

She leaned back, stretching her arms over her head, arching just enough to make him look—not that he needed encouragement.

Viktor set his drink aside, his expression unreadable, but his interest unmistakable.

"So tell me, beautiful," he said, voice low. "What do you want?"

Lara just smiled.

"Why don’t you tell me first?"