Page 9 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

LILLY

T he nausea hits like a freight train the minute I wake.

No warning. No mercy.

I bolt upright. Slap a hand over my mouth. Fuck. Get to the bathroom NOW! Or you might hurl all over the bed.

I run. My knees barely hit the floor before last night’s sketchy Chinese food makes a violent exit.

When the retching finally stops, I slump against the cold tile — sweating, aching.

Food poisoning. Has to be. That kung pao chicken did taste a little off.

Except…

This is day three.

Three mornings in a row of this same stomach-flipping hell.

Yesterday. The day before that.

I drag myself up, splash cold water on my face. I look pale and clammy. Sick. Like something chewed me up and spat me out.

“Get it together, Lilly,” I mutter. “You've got bills to pay.”

I stumble through my morning routine—shower, clothes, autopilot.

But the second the eggs cook, the smell slams into me like a punch to the gut.

I grip the kitchen counter hard, breathing through my nose, swallowing against the rising wave.

One more whiff and I’m gonna lose it all over again.

This nausea?

It’s not normal.

It’s not food poisoning.

It’s something else.

That's when it hits me.

The thought crashes over me like ice water, freezing me mid-motion.

When was my last period?

I turn off the stove and start counting backward. Three weeks ago? Four?

No. No, no, no.

Panic claws its way up my throat. I grab my phone, open my period tracking app.

Six weeks.

Six.

Fucking.

Weeks.

Six weeks since I watched him beat a man bloody in an alley. Since I let him take me in my bed—raw, reckless, no condom in sight.

My legs give out. I sink onto the floor.

This can't be happening. I'm on birth control. The pill. I take it every morning like clockwork.

Except—

Fuck.

That week I forgot to pick up more. I said I’d do it later.

I never did. I got lazy. Tired. It wasn’t like I was fucking on a daily basis.

I bury my face in my hands. How could I be so stupid?

No pill. No condom. No brain cells, apparently. Of all the things I’ve fucked up, this one might top the charts.

One night of heat and I threw common sense off a rooftop. He made me stupid. Made me forget all except how he felt inside me.

The one time in my life I throw caution to the wind, and this happens.

I need a test. Need to know for sure.

Half an hour later, I'm back home from the pharmacy. I run to the bathroom. Lock the door. There’s no one here, but he crawls around in my mind.

My hands shake so hard I can barely rip open the damn box.

The instructions might as well be in Sanskrit.

Wait three minutes.

Whatever.

My brain doesn’t work. I skim the pictures.

Pee on stick. Wait. Look for lines.

Simple enough.

The peeing part is easy. The waiting around? Not so much. For the first time in my life, I understand just how long three minutes can be.

My heart rattles around in my chest. Makes me sick. The test waits on the counter. I pace. Up and down. Up and down.

The bathroom’s too small for this kind of panic. Too quiet for the noise in my head.

I think about Nikolai.

About the man on the ground. The brass knuckles. The blood.

What kind of world would I be dragging a child into?

What kind of life?

Trouble will follow that man everywhere. He even fucks like he’s at war.

My phone buzzes. Three minutes.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and look.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

I'm pregnant with Nikolai Vetrov's baby.

The test slips from my numb fingers and clatters into the sink. I grip the counter so hard my knuckles go white.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

But the evidence stares back at me, tells me to look again at the two pink lines that just changed my entire life.

I sink to the bathroom floor and let the panic wash over me.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I can't tell him.

Won't tell him.

Nikolai Vetrov is one of the most feared names in the city.

Men like Nikolai don't want unexpected pregnancies from waitresses they've fucked a handful of times.

Men like Nikolai have people who make problems disappear.

And I've seen what his version of “making problems disappear” looks like.

He can make my toes curl and my brain short-circuit all he wants. But the man who split a guy’s face open with brass knuckles isn’t exactly PTA material.

No. Absolutely not.

I will not let my child grow up in that world. Will not put my child in danger.

This desperate, addictive pull I feel toward Nikolai? It's not love. It's danger masquerading as desire.

I can no longer confuse good sex with good for me. Good for my child.

Good sex doesn't make a good father. And a man who beats people bloody for a living doesn't make a good role model.

My phone buzzes. A text from Trish asking where I am. I'm supposed to be at work now since my shift starts in twenty minutes.

I stare at the phone like I forgot how to use it.

Work. My job. My life.

Everything I've built here, small as it is, suddenly feels fragile. Temporary.

How long before Nikolai shows up again? How long before his enemies decide I'm leverage?

I think about the bruises he left on my hips. At the time, they felt like promises. Now they feel like warnings.

The bathroom walls feel like they're closing in. I scramble to my feet, stumble into the bedroom.

I need to leave. Need to disappear before he comes back around here. Before anyone else in his world notices I exist.

My hands shake as I pull my suitcase from the closet. It's a small thing, barely big enough for a week's vacation. But it'll have to do.

I start grabbing clothes without thinking. Whatever fits. I empty my jewelry box—nothing too valuable, but I can pawn what little I have if I need to. Besides, I’ve got my savings account with a little stored away.

It's not much, but it's enough to get me out of Chicago. Enough to start over somewhere he'll never think to look.

I need to run before the devil catches up to me.