Page 39 of Mountain Daddy

The question comes out of nowhere, freezing me mid-roll. “I... I don't know, baby.”

“Do you miss him?”

Miss him?

I dream about him.

I wake up aching for hands that touched me like I was holy and profane at the same time.

I see tall strangers on the street and my heart stops until I realize it's not him.

But missing implies loss, and you can't lose something that was never really yours.

“It's complicated,” I say finally.

“When I'm bigger, will you tell me?”

When he's bigger. When his hands grow strong enough to break things.

“Maybe,” I whisper. I feel my throat clench. “Just…take over, will you? I need to go out back.”

My throat is all clenched up. I need a moment to calm down. A moment to make him forget any more questions. To distract him.

I make my way to the pantry. Watch over him through the glass peephole. Collect some more sugar, more flour. Might as well, while I’m in here.

But then, the bell above the door chimes, and I look out the glass. To see who it is.

And my world stands still.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, my feet, my legs that crumble like dry buttered bread.

For right there, in my haven of work, stands the shadow of my past himself.

Nikolai Vetrov.

The same slicked-back hair.

The same gait, like he owns the damn place.

The same green tiger eyes.

He’s dressed in Armani. Time hasn’t touched him—just sharpened the edges.

His eyes scan the room and my breaths begin to flutter. It’s not me I fear for.

I’m out back, behind the swing door, breath catching.

Those eyes land on Chleo.

My son.

Hisson.

And he doesn’t even know it.

Not yet.

But he might soon.

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