Page 20 of Secret Heir

This man is harder.

Weathered.

The gray at his temples is more pronounced than I noticed last night, threading through hair that’s still thick and dark but starting to show his age.

His face has new lines around his eyes, between his brows, and bracketing his mouth.

There are worry lines. Anger lines. Lines that say he’s lived through things that left marks.

He’s bigger than I remember, too.

Not taller, but broader.

His shoulders strain against the fabric of his shirt, his chest thick with muscle that speaks of hours in a gym.

His arms are powerful, corded with strength that probably comes from years of violence. The hands that push the cart are scarred across the knuckles, nicks and marks from fighting.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that’s pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair.

The scar on his right shoulder is visible where the collar gapes. I remember that scar.

I traced it with my fingers—and tongue—and asked how he got it. He’d said a car accident. I wonder now if that was a lie.

His face is still devastatingly handsome with a square jaw shadowed with stubble that’s more gray than brown. He has a straight nose that’s been broken at least once, maybe twice, leaving a small bump on the bridge. Full lips that I used to kiss, that used to smile at me.

Those lips don’t smile now. They’re pressed into a hard line as he looks at Daniel, taking in the sandwich in my son’s hands.

And his eyes. God, his eyes. Gray like winter storms, like steel.

The exact color of Daniel’s eyes that I see every day and try not to think about. They’re cold now with an intensity that makes me want to shrink back.

This is what he’s become.

Or maybe this is what he always was and I was too infatuated to see it. A killer. An enforcer. A man who does terrible things and sleeps soundly after.

He’s beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, and I hate that the part that loved him once still responds to the sight of him.

“Breakfast,” he says simply, parking the cart in the middle of the sitting room.

Daniel’s eyes go wide. I follow his gaze and understand why.

There’s enough food on that cart for six people. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, sausages, pancakes, fresh fruit, yogurt, pastries, orange juice, and milk. Everything is steaming hot, perfectly prepared, and arranged on expensive China with cloth napkins and real silverware.

Daniel drops what’s left of his sandwich and stares.

“Go ahead,” Maksim says to him. “Eat as much as you want.”

Daniel looks at me. I nod, even though my throat is tight. “It’s okay, baby.”

He approaches the cart like it might vanish if he moves too fast.

His hands shake as he picks up a plate—real porcelain, not the plastic and paper we’ve been using for years—and starts loading it with food.

Eggs. Bacon. Three pancakes. A handful of strawberries. A Danish.

The plate is overflowing by the time he’s done.

He carries it carefully to the coffee table and sits on the floor in front of it, then he eats like he’s afraid someone will take it away.