Page 34 of Gilded in Blood

We don’t waste time. Ilya keeps me close, one arm around my waist as we rush outside.

The scene is horrific, bodies of attackers litter the ground near a black car that tried to drive up. A dead driver is slumped over the wheel. I feel sick.

“Don’t look,” Ilya mutters, turning my face into his chest as he guides me quickly into our waiting SUV.

The drive back to the penthouse is dead silent. I barely speak, curled in on myself in the passenger seat. All I can think about is how close we came to losing everything tonight.

I was so selfish. So stupid. If I had just listened to Ilya and stayed in the apartment, none of this would have happened.

I glance over at him, guilt eating me alive… and that’s when I notice it.

There’s a wet patch blooming on the upper sleeve of his black shirt, near his shoulder. Even on the dark fabric, the stain is unmistakable.

“Is that… blood?” My voice cracks.

Ilya glances down at it casually. “Just a graze.”

“Oh my God.” My stomach drops. “I’m so sorry. This is all because of me. If I hadn’t insisted on seeing them⁠—”

He levels me with a hard, steady gaze. “No. It’s not your fault.”

“How can you say it’s not my fault?” I whisper, voice thick with guilt. “I practically insisted on seeing them. If I had just listened to you and stayed home, none of this would have happened.”

Ilya keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight. “Beating yourself up isn’t going to change anything. It’s not your fault, Milana. Whether we had dinner tonight or not, this attack would’ve happened anyway. Your brothers would still have been at that restaurant to meet with me. This has nothing to do with you.”

I want to believe him, but the guilt sits heavy in my stomach. I keep glancing at the wet patch on his sleeve, watching it slowly spread. He’s bleeding because of me.

When we finally pull into the underground parking and take the elevator up to the penthouse, I can’t hold it in anymore.

“You need to see a doctor,” I say the second the doors close behind us. “That could get infected. What if it’s worse than you think? We should call someone right now⁠—”

“Milana.”

“I know nothing about treating gunshot wounds, but maybe I can look it up or⁠—”

“It’s not a bullet wound,” he says calmly, walking into the living room. “It’s just a graze.”

“But it’s bleeding! I can try⁠—”

He cuts me off by pulling the first aid kit from a cabinet and setting it on the coffee table. Then, without warning, he reaches behind his neck and pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion.

My mouth falls open as I take in his hard, sculpted muscles. Yet again. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the ridges of his abs, and powerful arms corded with strength.

The large cross tattoo on his chest stands out darkly against his skin. A thin trail of blood runs down his left bicep from the graze.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

I snap my mouth shut, cheeks burning. “Sorry. I… um, what should I do?”

He sits down on the couch and nods toward the first aid kit. “You said you’d be my doctor. Start with cleaning it.”

I swallow hard, heart racing. “Okay,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

I move closer, kneeling on the couch beside him so I can reach his arm properly.

Being this close to him while he’s shirtless is completely different from when he treated the small cut on my stomach.

Back then, I was the one half-naked and vulnerable. Now the roles are reversed, and my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.