Page 25 of Gilded in Blood

And then, she finally got the courage to leave him.

“I thought I was finally free,” she had whispered to me on our last call, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I got clean. I moved to a new place. But last week he was waiting outside my building. He said if I don’t come back to him, he’ll make sure I lose everything. My job, my apartment… even my little sister. He knows where she goes to school.”

I listen to what has been going on in her life in the last few days carefully, taking notes while my chest aches for her. I document every detail, the patterns of coercion, the psychological manipulation, the threats.

This is what I’m good at: turning pain into records that can help build protection orders, support legal cases, and get these women the resources they need.

“You’re incredibly strong for getting clean and trying to rebuild your life,” I tell her softly when she finishes. “That took real courage. We’re going to document everything and get you connected with a shelter that has better security. We will get through this together, you will see.”

Ilya

I have always prided myself on control.

Control over my body. My emotions. My actions. In this world, losing control gets you killed. I’ve built my entire life on it.

But ever since Milana Morozov stepped into my path, that control has been slipping through my fingers like sand.

Every time I’m near her, it gets worse.

I still can’t believe what happened the other night. I should have walked away the second I realized what she was doing.

I wanted to, but the second I saw her, legs spread wide as she fucked herself with her fingers and the rose toy, something inside me snapped.

And to make matters worse, she was moaning that name.

The image is burned into my brain. Her slick folds, the way her thighs trembled, how wet she got when I told her what to do.

I can still taste her on my tongue from when I sucked her fingers clean. Sweet. Addictive. Fucking intoxicating.

I’ve jerked off to that memory every single day since. In the shower this morning, I fisted my cock hard, imagining it was her tight little cunt instead of my hand.

I came so violently I had to brace myself against the tiles. And still… it wasn’t enough.

That’s why I’ve been keeping my distance from her.

I leave rooms the moment she enters. I time my movements around hers. I watch her through the cameras I installed in every common area.

Cooking in those tiny pajamas, swimming in the rooftop pool in that black bikini that makes me want to drag her out and fuck her against the glass.

I don’t trust myself to be in the same room with her. Not after what I did. Not when all I can think about is spreading her open on my kitchen counter and burying my face between her thighs until she screams.

She’s a job. Nothing more.

I repeat it like a mantra, but the words are starting to sound hollow.

I step out of my bedroom, heading toward the office, when I hear her voice coming through her closed door. Soft, gentle, concerned.

I stop in the hallway, curiosity getting the better of me. Her bedroom is the one place I deliberately didn’t install cameras.

Thank fuck for that small mercy. If I had to watch her touch herself every night, I’d already be completely insane.

I lean closer, listening. I guess it's my turn to now eavesdrop.

She’s on a call. I can’t make out the full conversation, but pieces filter through clearly enough.

“I’m sorry… Don’t worry… I promise, it’s going to be okay…”

My jaw tightens. Who the fuck is she talking to? A boyfriend? The thought hits me like a knife in the ribs.