Mile High Daddy: Chapter 21

A dull, throbbing pain pulses through my body as I slowly come to. My limbs feel heavy, my mouth dry, my head stuffed with cotton. The harsh fluorescent light above stings my eyes as I blink against it, trying to focus, trying to remember.

Everything feels wrong—like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s body. My stomach aches with a deep, stretching pain, and a tight pressure lingers around my wrist where an IV needle is taped down. The sharp scent of antiseptic and bleach fills my nose.

Hospital.

I force my heavy eyelids open fully, wincing at the brightness. The walls are a sterile off-white, a heart monitor beeping steadily beside me. The sheets beneath my fingers are stiff and unfamiliar.

Then I feel it—a slow, fluttering movement deep inside me. My babies.

Relief rushes through me so fast that my eyes sting. They’re okay. I press a trembling hand over my stomach, swallowing against the lump in my throat.

A rustle of fabric catches my attention, and my breath stills as I turn my head just slightly.

Mikhail.

He’s sitting beside the bed, slumped in the chair like he’s been there for hours. His elbows rest on his knees, his head bowed, hands clasped together as if deep in thought. His usual sharpness is missing—his dark hair is mussed, his shirt wrinkled. He looks…different.

Disarmed.

I don’t move. I barely breathe.

Because for the first time, Mikhail looks human.

A lump forms in my throat, and without thinking, I shift. The IV tugs at my wrist as I try to push myself up⁠—

And my elbow knocks into the metal tray on the bedside table, sending it clattering to the floor.

Mikhail’s head jerks up immediately, his eyes snapping open, dark and alert in an instant. His gaze locks onto mine, his breath catching like he wasn’t expecting to find me awake.

A long, tense moment stretches between us.

Then he exhales, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “You’re awake.” His voice is hoarse, rough around the edges.

I swallow hard, my throat raw. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops, just for a second, to where my hand rests against my stomach.

Then he meets my eyes again. “And the baby?”

I nod, my fingers pressing lightly against my abdomen. “Still moving.”

Something flickers in his expression, something unreadable. He leans back in the chair, exhaling deeply like he’s been holding something in for too long.

I don’t know what to say. Because no matter how much I want to deny it⁠—

A part of me is relieved he’s here.

Mikhail exhales, rolling his shoulders before meeting my gaze again. “But you’re not in any shape to travel yet,” he says, his tone quieter this time. “You’ll stay at the hospital a little longer. I don’t want the baby to suffer.”

The words barely leave his mouth before my stomach knots, and before I can think—before I can stop myself—it slips out.

“Babies.”

The second it’s out, I freeze.

Mikhail stills, his entire body locking up. His gaze sharpens, dark eyes narrowing. “What did you say?”

I clamp my lips shut, but it’s too late.

He steps closer, the chair groaning as he pushes it back. “Lila.” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something dangerous underneath it. “What did you just say?”

My throat is dry, my pulse hammering. I turn my face away.

Mikhail steps closer, and before I can turn away again, his fingers grip my chin, tilting my face back toward him. His touch is firm, not painful, but unshakable—like he’s making sure I don’t hide from him.

His touch sends a shiver through me, but I refuse to let him see how much he affects me.

“Twins,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m having twins.”

“I’m pregnant.” The words hang between us, and for the first time, the unshakable, immovable Mikhail looks… shaken. His hand rakes through his silver-streaked hair, his sharp features unreadable.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. A beat of silence stretches between us before I speak again.

“Aren’t you going to ask if they’re yours?”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t have to ask. I know.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “I could have lied to you about being a virgin,” I say, my eyes searching his face, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Mikhail doesn’t so much as blink. He simply watches me, his gaze heavy, unreadable.

Then, his thumb brushes along my jaw in a way that’s almost…tender. Almost.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game here, kiska,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dark.

I swallow, but I don’t look away.

Because we both know the truth.

The babies are his.

The next morning, the nurse checks my vitals one last time before unhooking the IV from my arm. My discharge papers are signed, and within an hour, I’m allowed to leave. Once I’m in my own clothes, I step out into the hallway, and Mikhail falls into step beside me, leading me toward the exit.

I glance at him. “Are we going back?”

“Not yet,” he says.

I exhale, gripping the strap of my bag as we step through the hospital’s sliding doors. The morning air is cool and crisp, the sky overcast.

“But we’re going back to New York,” I press. “Aren’t we?”

“As soon as you regain your strength,” Mikhail answers, opening the passenger door of a sleek black SUV and gesturing for me to get in.

I hesitate for a split second before climbing inside.

Mikhail slides into the driver’s seat. The car purrs to life, and we pull away from the hospital in silence.

I stare out the window, my fingers tapping lightly against my thigh before I finally ask, “Where’s Torres?”

Mikhail shifts gears effortlessly, keeping his eyes on the road. “He’s around.”

I frown. “And your other men?”

“None of them know where I am,” he says.

My brows pull together. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Mikhail smirks, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “I can handle myself, zolotse.”

A slow chill runs down my spine at the Russian endearment.

Gold.

I shift in my seat, watching him from the corner of my eye. The city streets blur past, but my focus is on Mikhail.

There’s something off about this. He’s keeping himself hidden. Not just me.

The realization sends a prickle of unease down my spine.

I clear my throat. “What happened the night I left?”

Mikhail doesn’t react right away, but I don’t miss the slight shift in his expression—the flicker of something dark, controlled in his eyes.

“You mean after you ran?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.

I nod, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

Mikhail exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s deciding how much to tell me. His fingers tighten just slightly on the leather steering wheel. “Torres took a hit. Nothing fatal. I got shot too. But you already knew that.”

My breath catches.

He doesn’t say it like it was a big deal, like he almost died. He says it as if it was just another inconvenience.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out, my fingers hovering near his side. “Show me?”

Mikhail smirks, then lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a band of dark, bruised skin near his ribs, just above his hip. A jagged scar, still healing, stretches across his side.

I inhale sharply. “Mikhail…”

Without thinking, I press my fingers lightly against the wound.

He hisses, his abs tensing beneath my touch. I start to pull back, but his hand catches my wrist, keeping me there.

For a second, there’s nothing but silence.

His breathing is heavier now, slower. My pulse throbs in my ears. My fingers twitch against his skin, and he sucks in a sharp breath, his grip tightening. I realize, too late, that my hand is still on him. That his skin is too warm, that he’s watching me like I’m something he wants to consume whole.

I rip my hand back, clearing my throat. Mikhail smirks, his gaze still lingering as he pulls his shirt down. “Didn’t think you cared, kiska.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t. I just⁠—”

He pulls the car to a stop.

I blink. My apartment building.

My stomach twists. “You know where I live?”

Mikhail shifts in his seat, turning to me fully. His gaze is calm, unreadable, but knowing.

“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.