Page 26 of Gilded in Blood

My background check turned up nothing, but maybe they were careful. The idea of some other man on the other end of that line, receiving her gentle apologies and promises, makes my hands curl into fists at my sides.

Possessive anger I have no right to feel burns through me.

After a while, she goes quiet. Then I hear shuffling from the other side of the door, and a second later, it swings open.

Milana steps out and freezes when she sees me standing right there. She’s wearing that thin, flimsy tank top that does almost nothing to hide the soft swell of her breasts and tiny shorts that ride high on her creamy thighs again.

Her skin looks impossibly smooth, and the way her cleavage pushes up when she breathes makes my cock twitch hard against my zipper.

Fuck. This girl is trying to kill me.

She recovers first. “Oh. Hello.”

I nod once. “Hello.”

A beat of silence. Then her eyes narrow with that familiar fire. “I was starting to think I was living here alone. I haven’t seen you in days.”

I don’t answer. I’ve been avoiding her precisely because of moments like this. Just standing near her is enough to make me hard and stupid.

She folds her arms across her chest. My eyes flick down for half a second before I force them back to her face.

“Who were you talking to?” I ask, voice low.

She lifts a brow. “Eavesdropping now?”

“I was passing by and heard your voice,” I say flatly. “We’re under threat, Milana. I’m trying to protect you. If you’re talking to people, I need to know who. No one outside your immediate family should know you’re in New York, let alone your exact location.”

She tilts her head. “How long have you been standing out here exactly?”

“Long enough to know you were on a call.” I give her a stern look. “Who was it?”

“Who I talk to is my business.”

“I can hack into your system right now and listen to every conversation you’ve had. I’m giving you the chance to tell me yourself.”

Her cheeks flush with anger. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I step closer, crowding her space just enough. “Try me.”

She glares up at me, fire and defiance burning in those eyes.

The tension between us is thick enough to choke on, and all I can think about is pushing her back into that room, ripping those tiny shorts off, and finally tasting what I’ve been obsessing over for days.

I quirk a brow. “So, which is it going to be?”

Milana rolls her eyes, and lets out a huff.

“Fine. I was talking to a client,” she says, “Her name is Maria. She’s a survivor of domestic violence and coercion. Her ex got her addicted to drugs, used them to control her for years.

“She finally got clean, moved away, and he’s still stalking and threatening her. I was helping her document everything for a protection order and connecting her with a safe shelter.”

I stare at her, momentarily thrown.

She keeps going, the words coming easier now. “I'm sure you already know I volunteer with non-profits and victim advocacy centers. I do trauma counseling notes, psychological documentation, help build cases that actually hold up in court.

“It’s not glamorous, but it matters. These women have been through hell and most people don’t believe them or don’t want to get involved. So I do and I’m not going to stop.”

The spoiled brat image I had of her cracks wider open every time I talk to her.