Page 64 of Mountain Daddy

Instead, I'm wet.

My thighs clench and I hate myself for it. Hate that watching him nearly kill a man made my body respond like he'd touched me instead.

What kind of sick, twisted woman gets aroused by violence?

The kind who's been ruined by Nikolai Vetrov, apparently.

I push harder. Faster. Like I can outrun the memory of him in that alley. Dangerous, beautiful, completely in control. The way his muscles flexed beneath that shirt. The power that coiled through him, outward, for all to see.

He was completely in control. He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t acting on his emotions. That's what scares me the most.

He was methodical. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.

Like he enjoyed it.

My lungs burn. Sweat stings my eyes. But I don't slow down. Can't slow down. Because if I stop moving, I'll have to think about what I saw. What it means.

What it means for Chleo.

The thought hits like ice water. My son. My sweet, innocent boy who thinks Nikolai is just a nice man who fixes chairs.

If Nikolai is capable of that kind of violence—and clearly he is—what does that make me for wanting him anyway?

What does that make me for letting him anywhere near my child?

I round the corner onto Elm Street.

Completely spent.

Tired.

Breathless.

My house sits at the end of the block. White clapboard siding. Blue shutters. A garden where I grow herbs for the bakery.

Normal. Wholesome. Everything Nikolai isn't.

That's when I see him.

Sitting on my porch steps like he owns the place.

Looks like he's been waiting.

My feet stutter to a stop. Every instinct screams at me to turn around. To run back the way I came and keep running until I hit the state line.

But I can't.

This is my home. My life.

Nikolai looks up as I approach. No guilt in his eyes. No shame. He's cleaned the blood from his hands.

"You're a fast runner," he says conversationally.

"How did you know where I live?"

"Small town. It's not hard to find people."

The casual way he says it makes my skin crawl.

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