Mile High Daddy: Chapter 24

The second the door clicks shut, I exhale, rubbing my temples. “Well, that was…an experience.”

Mikhail doesn’t say anything.

I glance up at him, finding him still standing by the door, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression carefully neutral—which, with him, is never actually neutral. It means he’s thinking, and usually, that means trouble for me.

“What?” I ask, crossing my arms.

He tilts his head slightly. “Tell me about them.”

I blink. “Who?”

“Maggie. Alex.”

I frown, walking toward the kitchen. I suddenly feel very thirsty. “Why?”

His lips press together for a fraction of a second, like he’s debating something, before he says, “I want to know who’s been in your life while you were gone.”

I snort. “Uh, normal people? People who don’t plot world domination for a living?”

Mikhail doesn’t even blink at the dig. “And Alex?”

I roll my eyes. “Ah, I see what’s happening here.”

His brows lift slightly. “Do you?”

I grin, shaking my head. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

Mikhail doesn’t react at first. And for a split second, I think I’ve won.

Then he moves.

One step.

Then another.

Until my lower back presses against the kitchen counter, and his body is just inches from mine, his presence swallowing me whole.

Mikhail places a palm flat on the counter beside me, caging me in. His other hand lifts, fingers grazing the side of my neck, slow and deliberate, tracing a lazy line down to my collarbone.

When he speaks, his voice is low, dark, a whisper of sin.

“No one touches what’s mine.”

My pulse jumps.

I tilt my chin up, forcing myself to look unaffected. “I don’t belong to anyone, Mikhail.”

He smirks, but it’s not playful. It’s a promise. “We’ll see about that.”

Then, before I can gather a single rational thought, his mouth crashes against mine.

His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I’m melting into him, drowning in him.

I clutch at his shirt, my fingers curling into the fabric, desperate to hold on to something, because my knees? Completely useless.

His other hand spans my waist, pulling me closer, his body heat sinking into mine, making me feel small, owned, claimed.

I let out a soft moan and he growls against my lips, the sound so deep, so possessive, that a fresh wave of heat floods through me.

He kisses me harder, his tongue sliding against mine, stealing every breath, every thought⁠—

Until suddenly, I gasp.

Mikhail jerks back instantly, his eyes dark with hunger but now laced with concern.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is gruff, breathless, but his hands are already gentle, steadying me, like he’s afraid he hurt me.

I shake my head quickly. “No, you didn’t—” I pause, pressing a hand to my stomach as a strange sensation ripples through me again.

His eyes drop, watching as my fingers settle over my belly.

The realization hits me, and my chest tightens with something unexplainable.

“One of the babies just kicked,” I whisper, barely able to believe it myself.

Mikhail freezes.

His expression—always so controlled, so unreadable—shifts into something I’ve never seen before. Something raw. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks…stunned. Like the ground just moved beneath him.

I press my hand tighter against my stomach, waiting⁠—

And then, there it is.

Another kick.

Another tiny, perfect little reminder that there are two other people here with us.

Mikhail stares at my stomach, and for the first time in my life, I see true hesitation on his face. Like he wants to touch but doesn’t know if he can.

My throat tightens, something inside me softening against my will.

So I take his hand⁠—

And place it over my stomach.

Mikhail’s hand is warm, strong, covering mine as it rests on my belly. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then, his voice breaks the silence, softer than I expected. “Have they kicked before?”

I swallow, my heart still racing, my body still tingling from the way he kissed me just moments ago. “Yeah, they have,” I admit, “but not as strong as this.”

Mikhail’s lips curve slightly, his fingers flexing against my stomach. “I seem to have that effect.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Of course you’d find a way to make this about you.”

He chuckles, low and deep, and for the first time in a long time, the tension between us feels different.

Not suffocating.

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 loop my 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 forearms prominent, 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.

“You just got out of the hospital,” he says, voice measured, like he’s holding back a storm of opinions he’s dying to unleash on me.

I tighten my grip on my bag, already bracing for the fight. “I feel fine.”

“You need to rest,” he counters, his tone bordering on authoritative.

“I’ve been resting,” I fire back, lifting my chin. “And now I have to get back to my life. Mr. Adams asked me to come back today, so I’m going.”

Mikhail crosses his arms over his broad, sweat-damp chest, his muscles flexing, his tattoos shifting over his skin. The move is calculated, imposing—he’s used to people backing down when he takes up space like this.

I, however, am not most people.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.

I let out a dry laugh, already exhausted by the conversation. “Well, lucky for me, I wasn’t asking for permission.”

His eyes darken, his jaw tightening.

“You can’t stop me,” I add, raising a brow.

Mikhail steps forward, closing the distance between us, the heat from his body wrapping around me like an iron trap.

“Actually,” he murmurs, his voice dangerously low, “I can.”

The challenge sends a sharp spark of irritation through me, and suddenly I want to push back, to claw my way out of the suffocating dominance he always throws over me.

“Want to try me?” I taunt, lifting my chin defiantly.

His gaze flickers with something primal, his nostrils flaring like he’s debating whether or not to actually pick me up and throw me over his shoulder.

“You’re being reckless,” he mutters, his voice tighter now.

“And you’re being controlling.”

“You call it controlling, I call it keeping you safe,” he growls, his hands flexing like he’s fighting the urge to grab me.

“Safe from what, Mikhail?” I snap, pushing against his wall of dominance. “Because last I checked, you are the one who turned my life upside down!”

His lips part, his expression shifting, but I don’t let him speak.

“You think I want this?” I continue, anger rising in my throat. “You think I wanted to wake up one day and find out that my life doesn’t belong to me anymore? That my decisions are suddenly yours to make?”

Mikhail tenses, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “You’re not going,” he says again, like it’s law, like his word is final.

I pull out my phone, not breaking eye contact, and dial Alex.

Mikhail’s entire body goes rigid.

“Hey,” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual, even though my pulse is racing. “Can you give me a ride?”

Mikhail’s jaw ticks, his fists tightening, his entire stance radiating barely contained fury.

I don’t wait for his reaction.

I grab my coat, open the door, and step out.

When I reach the sidewalk, I glance back⁠—

And there he is.

Standing in the window, arms crossed, watching me leave.

By the time my shift ends, the sky is already deep blue, the late evening air crisp as I step outside the coffee shop. I pull my coat tighter around me, exhaling, half expecting to feel some sort of relief.

Instead, I freeze at the sight of Mikhail, leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. A slight thrill runs through me at his presence, even though I tell myself I should still be mad.

I slow my steps, tilting my head. “How long have you been here?”

Mikhail doesn’t answer. Just watches me. His gray eyes flick over my face, scanning, assessing, like he’s making sure I’m okay, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

A warmth fills my chest, unexpected and annoying all at once. I figured he’d still be pissed that I left—maybe even try to teach me a lesson by ignoring me.

But he’s here. Waiting.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

I don’t say anything as I walk toward him, letting the moment hang between us.

Mikhail opens the car door for me, and just as I’m about to step inside, something catches my eye across the street.

A black car. The window is rolled down just enough, and in the driver’s seat, I see him.

Ryan.

He’s staring right at me.

My breath hitches, my stomach tightening as a chill races down my spine.

He doesn’t linger. The second he sees me looking, he drives off, his car blending into the night.

Mikhail must catch my hesitation, because he steps closer. “What is it?”

I force my body to move, shaking my head as I slide into the passenger seat. “Nothing,” I say, voice tight, unsure.

Mikhail doesn’t look convinced.

But he doesn’t push.

And as he pulls onto the road, I can’t shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.