Page 126 of Gilded in Blood

He sits back on the couch, hard and ready, and I straddle him, sinking down slowly until he’s buried deep inside me.

We both groan at the same time, the feeling overwhelming. I start moving, rolling my hips, taking him deeper with every thrust.

His good hand grips my waist, guiding me, while his injured arm rests on the back of the couch. The couch creaks beneath us as I ride him harder, faster, chasing the pleasure building between us.

“Fuck, just like that, baby,” he groans, thrusting up to meet me. “You feel so good. So tight. This pussy was made for me.”

I moan, leaning forward to kiss him, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels perfect. He reaches between us, thumb circling my clit, and I cry out, clenching around him as I come hard, my whole body shaking.

He follows right after, burying himself deep and filling me with heat, groaning my name against my neck.

We stay like that for a moment, breathless and tangled. Then he lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the bathroom. We shower together, the warm water soothing our bodies.

And while in the shower, he looks deep into my eyes, voice low and serious.

“I love you.”

For a moment, I’m shocked, staring at him. He says it again, softer this time, like he needs me to hear it.

“I love you, Milana.”

My heart swells, and I pull him down for a kiss, whispering against his lips, “I love you too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Kirill

Two weeks later...

It’s been two weeks since Michael and Ivan died. For the first time in what feels like forever, everyone is beginning to breathe again.

Not because the danger is gone, that will never happen in our world. Men like us don’t get the luxury of living without enemies. Kill one, and another inevitably crawls out of the shadows, eager to take his place.

But the immediate threat is over. The war that has consumed us for weeks is finally behind us.

We’re gathered in the Morozov estate’s sprawling garden, taking advantage of the warm afternoon. The long dining table is filled with food, empty wine glasses, and easy conversation.

Mikhail and Artyom’s wives are back from the safe houses.

I watch the two men as both hover over their pregnant wives like hawks, their attention never straying far for more than a few seconds.

Every time one of the women shifts in her chair, one of them is already asking if she’s comfortable, if she needs water, if she wants to sit somewhere cooler.

I can’t even make fun of them. If I’d been forced to spend weeks away from Milana while she carried my child, I’d probably be worse.

The thought catches me off guard. My gaze drifts to the woman sitting beside me.

Milana is listening to one of Irina’s stories, smiling softly.

Without meaning to, I picture her with a rounded belly. Our child growing inside her. The image is so vivid I almost forget to breathe.

A year ago, the idea would’ve terrified me. Marriage, children, a family. Those were things other men dreamed about. Men who hadn’t lived the life I’d lived.

Now the thought doesn’t scare me in the slightest. Because it’s Milana. Anything involving her somehow doesn’t feel frightening anymore.

Instead, it feels right. I wonder if she’d ever want that. If she’d want children someday. If she’d want to build that kind of life with me.

And if she doesn’t, that’s fine too. I don’t need anything else as long as I have her.