Page 113 of Mile High Daddy

Something else entirely.

We just look at each other, something unspoken passing between us, something I can’t name. My heart skips a beat, my stomach tightens—and not just from the baby kicking.

I can’t stop staring at his hands. The faint scars. The way his veins rise slightly beneath the skin.

He’s older—at least twenty years older than me.

I should feel out of place next to him, but somehow, I don’t. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t treat me like I’m too young, too naïve. He looks at me like I belong here, even if I’m still trying to figure that out myself.

What is this feeling?

How did we go from hatred and resentment to…this?

I try to push the thought away, to shut down whatever is happening between us, but I can’t stop myself from asking?—

“My mother,” I whisper, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Where exactly is she?”

Mikhail’s face hardens instantly. The warmth vanishes from his eyes. He steps back, his touch gone, the distance between us suddenly vast, cold, suffocating.

“I did what I had to do,” he says simply.

The moment is gone.

And I’m left standing there, my hand still on my stomach, wondering what just slipped through my fingers.

I loopmy hair into a messy bun, adjusting my coat as I sling my bag over my shoulder. It feels good to be doing something normal again.

After yesterday’s…whatever that was, I need normal.

I need my routine, my life—something that isn’t Mikhail and his overwhelming presence.

I walk toward the door, reaching for the handle?—

And it swings open before I can touch it.

The moment Mikhail steps through the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath, I forget how to function for half a second.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before—so raw, so undone.

His usual crisp suits and polished control are gone, replaced by a fitted black T-shirt that clings to every inch of muscle, damp with sweat, outlining the sharp ridges of his chest and abs. His biceps strain against the fabric, the veins in his forearmsprominent, like he’s just pushed his body to the edge and could do it all over again.

And his tattoos?—

They stand out starkly against his tanned skin, winding up his arms, curling over his shoulder. There’s one along his collarbone, just barely peeking out from the neckline of his shirt, and another on the inside of his forearm. He looks dangerous. He looks powerful. He looks like he owns the world and wouldn’t hesitate to burn it down if he wanted to.

I swallow hard, forcing my gaze away before I can do something stupid, like let my eyes drop lower—because if I do, I’ll be staring at the way his sweat-soaked shirt clings to his abs, or worse, the way his joggers hang low on his hips, hinting at the carved V-line beneath them.

“Where are you going?”

His voice snaps me back to reality, sharp, commanding, pulling me from thoughts I should not be having about the man who is trying to stop me from leaving my own home.

I clear my throat, gripping my bag tighter. “To work.”

Mikhail frowns, his intense gray eyes darkening, and that’s when I realize?—

Oh. He’s pissed.

His frown deepens, the tension in his body shifting from post-workout exhaustion to something else entirely—something rigid, unyielding, and dominant.

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