Page 25 of Mountain Daddy

I force myself to focus, to move through the motions of my job. Pour drinks. Smile at customers. Pretend I don't scan every tall, dark-haired man who walks through the door hoping it's him.

I force myself to focus.

Pour the drinks.

Fake the smiles.

Go through the damn motions.

And pretendI’m not scanning every tall, dark-haired man who walks through that door. Have been for the past week.

It’s never him.

Maybe he's done with me. Maybe two nights was enough to scratch whatever itch I was.

The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

It’s not just the sex I’m missing—though God knows that was next-level.

It’sthe way he looked at me afterward. Like I wasn’t just some waitress from the wrong side of nowhere.

“Mine,” he'd growled.

And he fucking meant it.

I think.

But if I was really his, wouldn't he be here? Wouldn't he have called?

My shift ends at midnight. I grab my purse. Put on my coat. Head out into the Chicago night. The city hums like it’s on edge.

That's when I hear it.

The sound of a fistfight.

I freeze, listening.

I should walk away. Get in my car and drive home. Mind my own business.

Instead, I creep toward the sound, staying in the shadows.

Across the street, in the mouth of an alley, I see him.

Nikolai.

He’s standing over a man crumpled to his knees, face bloodied. Nikolai’s in a pristine white shirt. Like the violence never touched him.

Except for his hands.Split and dripping red.

“Where is it?” Nikolai roars.

The man on the ground mumbles but I can't hear.

Nikolai kicks the man’s ribs. My stomach lurches at the sound of bones cracking.

“I asked you a question.”

I watch, frozen. Transfixed. Horrified. Nikolai slips a hand into his jacket. I pray it isn’t a gun.

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