Page 85 of Mile High Ex's Dad
“Yes,” I say.
There’s no point pretending otherwise.
His expression doesn’t change much, but something in him withdraws, just slightly.
I swing my legs carefully toward the edge of the bed.
I need distance. Air. A minute to think without his body against mine and his hand over my stomach making everything blur together into want and fear and something more dangerous than either.
But before my feet fully touch the floor, his hand closes around my wrist. “Don’t,” he says quietly.
I look down at his hand, then back at his face. “I need a second.”
“You can have it here.”
“That’s the problem.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Because he understands me. Of course he does. He understands exactly what his presence does to the room, to my body, to my ability to think in a straight line.
I pull gently, but he doesn’t let go.
And for one brief, stupid moment, another image flashes through my mind. Not him. Her.
The woman on the plane. The one waiting outside the suite after I came out of the bathroom, still shaky and dazed and too wrecked from what he’d just done to me to hide it.
Stay away from him.
He’s a bad man.
It isn’t safe.
Then the hallway this morning. The same woman with a floral arrangement in her arms, looking me dead in the face and pretending not to know me.
A small cold thought moves through me. Could she have something to do with the poisoned champagne?
Because if there is even a chance she’s tied to any of this, then I can’t tell him yet. Not until I understand what I’m actually holding. Not until I know whether I’m protecting myself from him, or protecting him from something else entirely.
His thumb moves once against the inside of my wrist. “Sienna.”
I blink and realize I’ve gone still.
He’s watching me too closely now. “What is it?”
Nothing safe to answer with.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see that immediately.
“What are you thinking?” His voice is low. Careful. More dangerous than demanding would have been.
“Nothing that concerns you,” I say. Before he can protest, I’m pulling my shirt on. “Good night, Viktor.”
12
SIENNA
