Page 94 of Mile High Daddy

“I do, Leah Carter.”

“How do you know that?” I say before shaking my head. “Actually, you know what? Don’t tell me.”

There’s no smugness, no arrogance in his voice—just calm certainty when he says, “I didn’t know until you made that call.”

“Did you have someone trace the call?” I ask, forcing myself to meet his gaze again.

Mikhail’s lips twitch slightly. “I didn’t have to. I was already watching.”

A shiver runs through me, because I believe him.

I was never fully off his radar, was I?

I turn back toward the window, pressing my lips together, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I shake my head, my throat tight. “So what now?”

Mikhail lets a beat of silence pass before responding. “Now, we go inside.”

My stomach clenches. I shouldn’t feel relief at that. I should be worried. I should be planning another escape.

But for some reason, I hesitate.

I glance at him one last time, trying to figure out what’s changed. Why he hasn’t dragged me back to New York yet.

Mikhail tilts his head slightly. “Something on your mind, Leah?”

I flinch at the name.

It sounds wrong coming from him.

Like an illusion he’s already torn apart.

22

MIKHAIL

Isit in the dimly lit living room, one hand resting against my temple, the other gripping the glass of vodka I haven’t touched in over an hour.

I’ve taken bullets, survived ambushes, outplayed men who thought they could outmaneuver me.

But this—her—is something else entirely.

Lila. Pregnant. Carrying my children.

I rake a hand through my hair, staring blankly out the window.

She’s here, just down the hall, in that tiny apartment she tried to hide in. And I should be thinking of my next move—about getting her back to New York, about the war I still have to fight.

Instead, all I can think about is her voice when she said it.

Babies.

The word hasn’t left my head since.

A soft sound pulls me from my thoughts. I turn my head just in time to see her waddling toward the kitchen. I frown, watchingas she stretches to grab a pan from the cabinet, moving slower than usual.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

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