Yelena's breath hitched as her fingertips started to brush over the ridges of his chest, touch frantic as though she were determined to scrape away some illusion.
Yet the hardness beneath her palms remained stubbornly real, his muscles flexing against her probing.
"No...no, this can't be true." Her eyes narrowed, lips parted in disbelief as she whispered. "This has to be some kind of spell. Some trick."
"The Mika I remember wasn't like this. He was thin, fragile, so scrawny I was afraid he'd blow away with the wind."
Her voice trembled as she ran both hands across his torso, pressing into every line, every ridge, only to find not even a hint of softness. Every poke, every press met nothing but iron hardness.
"Keep searching all you want, Yelena. You won't find what you're looking for." Mika leaned back with that insufferable smirk of his. "This is me, top to bottom. No illusions, no tricks. Just pure me. A work of art, if I do say so myself."
