Page 93 of Mile High Daddy

Mikhail shifts gears effortlessly, keeping his eyes on the road. “He’s around.”

I frown. “And your other men?”

“None of them know where I am,” he says.

My brows pull together. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Mikhail smirks, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “I can handle myself,zolotse.”

A slow chill runs down my spine at the Russian endearment.

Gold.

I shift in my seat, watching him from the corner of my eye. The city streets blur past, but my focus is on Mikhail.

There’s something off about this. He’s keeping himself hidden. Not just me.

The realization sends a prickle of unease down my spine.

I clear my throat. “What happened the night I left?”

Mikhail doesn’t react right away, but I don’t miss the slight shift in his expression—the flicker of something dark, controlled in his eyes.

“You mean after you ran?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.

I nod, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

Mikhail exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s deciding how much to tell me. His fingers tighten just slightly on the leather steering wheel. “Torres took a hit. Nothing fatal. I got shot too. But you already knew that.”

My breath catches.

He doesn’t say it like it was a big deal, like he almost died. He says it as if it was just another inconvenience.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out, my fingers hovering near his side. “Show me?”

Mikhail smirks, then lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a band of dark, bruised skin near his ribs, just above his hip. A jagged scar, still healing, stretches across his side.

I inhale sharply. “Mikhail…”

Without thinking, I press my fingers lightly against the wound.

He hisses, his abs tensing beneath my touch. I start to pull back, but his hand catches my wrist, keeping me there.

For a second, there’s nothing but silence.

His breathing is heavier now, slower. My pulse throbs in my ears. My fingers twitch against his skin, and he sucks in a sharp breath, his grip tightening. I realize, too late, that my hand is still on him. That his skin is too warm, that he’s watching me like I’m something he wants to consume whole.

I rip my hand back, clearing my throat. Mikhail smirks, his gaze still lingering as he pulls his shirt down. “Didn’t think you cared,kiska.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t. I just?—”

He pulls the car to a stop.

I blink. My apartment building.

My stomach twists. “You know where I live?”

Mikhail shifts in his seat, turning to me fully. His gaze is calm, unreadable, but knowing.

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