Page 227 of Mile High Ruin

His eyes hold mine. “You never only walk away,” he says quietly.

My throat tightens.

Maybe that’s the most honest thing either of us has said all night.

I reach for my phone from the small side table and slip it into my pocket. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why I keep needing to.”

He says nothing.

I turn before he can.

Because if I keep looking at him, if I let myself see the hurt he’s trying not to show, I will sit back down. I will let him put his hand on my stomach again. I will let him kiss my breast and my mouth and all the places where I’m weak for him, and I will pretend tenderness is the same as trust.

The guard outside straightens when I open the door. “Miss Mercer.”

“I’m walking,” I say.

His gaze flicks past my shoulder, toward Vadim.

For one long second, no one moves.

Then Vadim’s voice comes from behind me, quiet and controlled enough to make the air feel colder. “Let her.”

The guard’s hesitation is almost comic. Poor man. Caught between a pregnant woman who looks ready to commit a small crime and a Pakhan who sounds like he’s already considering a large one.

Finally, he steps aside.

I walk out before Vadim can change his mind.

The corridor is too bright after the dimness of the private room. It’s quiet. The kind of hospital quiet that makes every sound feel disrespectful: the soft squeak of my shoes, the low murmur of nurses at the station, the distant beep of some machine behind a closed door. I move slower than I want to, one hand under my stomach because walking at seven months pregnant has become less movement and more negotiation.

My body is still warm from him. My breasts still ache from his mouth. My thighs still feel unsteady from his hand. My lips still remember his restraint, the way he kissed me like he was afraid of hurting me and desperate enough to do it anyway. Every step I take feels like I’m walking away from the softest version of him, and I hate that the softest version of him may be the most dangerous one.

Because it makes me want to forget.

The elevator is at the end of the hallway. I press the button and wait with my back straight, even though my lower back aches and my stomach feels too heavy and the baby shifts under my ribs as if she doesn’t approve of any of this. The guard remains by the room. I can feel him watching me. I can also feel Vadim behind that closed door, like a storm contained by glass.

The elevator arrives with a soft chime.

I step inside. For one second, I expect a hand to slide between the doors before they close. Vadim’s hand. His voice. His impossible command.

Nothing comes.

The doors shut.

My breath leaves me too quickly, and I press my palm to the cool metal wall. “Just air,” I whisper to myself. “That’s all.”

The hospital garden is on the ground floor, tucked behind the east wing like someone designed it because they knew grief needed somewhere to stand. I saw the sign earlier when one of the nurses took a wrong turn pushing an empty wheelchair.

I inhale deeply. Outside, the world feels softer. The garden is small but well-kept, bordered by low hedges and pale stone paths that wind between benches, potted palms, and beds of white flowers glowing under discreet lamps. Somewhere water trickles from a narrow fountain. Beyond the walls, the city hums faintly, alive and indifferent.

I walk until I reach a bench beneath a frangipani tree, then lower myself onto it with more effort than I would like to admit.

The baby moves again.

I rest both hands over her. “I know,” I murmur. “Bad idea.”

She kicks.