Page 17 of Gilded in Blood

So Michael is attacking the one weakness every powerful man has.

Family.

Everyone knows Maxim would burn the world for Calina. Which means he'd do the same for her little sister. So, putting her sister in danger would draw him out.

Killing two birds with one stone.

When I’m finally done with my workout, I’m sweaty and exhausted. Hopefully she spends the rest of the day in her bedroom and I don’t see much of her.

If wishes were horses.

The moment I step into the penthouse, the scent of garlic and herbs hits me. I follow it into the kitchen and stop short.

Milana is standing at the stove in nothing but flimsy black lounge set. A thin tank top that clings to her breasts and tiny shorts that barely cover the curve of her ass. Her hair is loose, still slightly damp from a shower. She looks far too fucking edible for my sanity.

My cock hardens instantly. Irritation flares hot in my chest. This is not what I need right now.

“What are you doing?” I ask, voice rougher than I intend.

She glances over her shoulder, stirring the pan. “I’m making pasta. I was hungry, so I decided to cook something for us. Are you hungry?”

I should walk away. Instead, I lean against the island and watch her move around my kitchen like she owns it.

“I didn’t picture you as the cooking type.”

She talks as she stirs the pot. “I never used to like cooking. Growing up, there were always staff for that. My sister, Calina, liked to cook. But when I moved to Manchester I had to learn. Turns out I actually enjoy it now.”

This girl is full of fucking surprises.

I listen as she tells me about the first meal she ever made. How it was a disaster, and how she had to call her sister in the middle of the night, U.S. time, just to figure out what she did wrong.

Her stories pull something close to a smile out of me. Which is rare. I don’t smile.

When she’s done, she plates two servings and carries them to the island, sliding one toward me.

I take a bite. It’s good. Really fucking good.

I don’t say anything for a while as we eat. She fills the silence, telling me about her studies in criminal law and her specialization in forensic psychology. The more she talks, the more I realize how badly I misjudged her. She’s not the spoiled princess I was expecting.

She finishes first, gathers both plates, and heads toward the sink.

"Leave them," I say automatically.

She glances back at me. "Why?"

Why can’t she ever just do as she’s told? "I'll deal with them later."

She snorts softly. "Or we could just deal with them now. I hate leaving dirty dishes in the sink."

Before I can stop her, she's already running warm water over the plates. With a resigned sigh, I push away from the island and join her.

She hands me a clean dish towel; I grab it without saying a word. For several minutes, we work in comfortable silence.

She washes while I dry and put everything away. At one point, she reaches for a cabinet that's just beyond her height. She rises onto her toes.

I step around her without thinking, grab the bowl from her hand, and place it on the top shelf.

"Thanks," she says with a smile.