Page 92 of Mile High Daddy

The words barely leave his mouth before my stomach knots, and before I can think—before I can stop myself—it slips out.

“Babies.”

The second it’s out, I freeze.

Mikhail stills, his entire body locking up. His gaze sharpens, dark eyes narrowing. “What did you say?”

I clamp my lips shut, but it’s too late.

He steps closer, the chair groaning as he pushes it back. “Lila.” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something dangerous underneath it. “What did you just say?”

My throat is dry, my pulse hammering. I turn my face away.

Mikhail steps closer, and before I can turn away again, his fingers grip my chin, tilting my face back toward him. His touch is firm, not painful, but unshakable—like he’s making sure I don’t hide from him.

His touch sends a shiver through me, but I refuse to let him see how much he affects me.

“Twins,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m having twins.”

“I’m pregnant.” The words hang between us, and for the first time, the unshakable, immovable Mikhail looks… shaken.His hand rakes through his silver-streaked hair, his sharp features unreadable.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. A beat of silence stretches between us before I speak again.

“Aren’t you going to ask if they’re yours?”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t have to ask. I know.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “I could have lied to you about being a virgin,” I say, my eyes searching his face, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Mikhail doesn’t so much as blink. He simply watches me, his gaze heavy, unreadable.

Then, his thumb brushes along my jaw in a way that’s almost…tender. Almost.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game here,kiska,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dark.

I swallow, but I don’t look away.

Because we both know the truth.

The babies are his.

The next morning,the nurse checks my vitals one last time before unhooking the IV from my arm. My discharge papers are signed, and within an hour, I’m allowed to leave. Once I’m in my own clothes, I step out into the hallway, and Mikhail falls into step beside me, leading me toward the exit.

I glance at him. “Are we going back?”

“Not yet,” he says.

I exhale, gripping the strap of my bag as we step through the hospital’s sliding doors. The morning air is cool and crisp, the sky overcast.

“But we’re going back to New York,” I press. “Aren’t we?”

“As soon as you regain your strength,” Mikhail answers, opening the passenger door of a sleek black SUV and gesturing for me to get in.

I hesitate for a split second before climbing inside.

Mikhail slides into the driver’s seat. The car purrs to life, and we pull away from the hospital in silence.

I stare out the window, my fingers tapping lightly against my thigh before I finally ask, “Where’s Torres?”

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