Page 35 of Gilded in Blood

I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Every rational thought about first aid flies out of my head.

Ilya reaches into the kit, his large hand covering mine as he guides my fingers to the antiseptic wipes and gauze.

The moment our skin touches, that familiar zap of electricity shoots straight through me, making my breath hitch. I wonder if he feels it too.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Milana

If he feels it, he doesn’t show it.

“Clean it first,” he says, voice a low rumble. “Then dry it. Then bandage.”

“Okay,” I whisper, trying to focus. My hands tremble slightly as I press the antiseptic wipe to the wound. He doesn’t even flinch.

I work carefully, hyper-aware of every inch of him, the way his muscles shift under my touch, the steady beat of his heart under that cross tattoo.

I can’t help myself. “I never pictured you as the religious type,” I say softly, eyes flicking to the ink on his chest.

He watches me for a moment. “Why?”

I shrug, focusing on cleaning the wound. I swipe another antiseptic wipe over the blood smeared across his skin.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “You just don’t strike me as the church-going type.”

A corner of his mouth twitches.

“And what exactly is the church-going type?”

His gaze lifts to mine.

“Are you judging me, Milana?”

“Of course not.” The denial comes a little too fast. “I’m just saying… you seem more likely to make people confess their sins than sit through a sermon.”

For a second, there’s complete silence. Then one dark eyebrow lifts. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Is that so?”

I realize too late that I’ve amused him. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

A faint, almost sad smile touches his lips. “My mother was very religious. Catholic. When I was little, she took me to church whenever she could.”

I glance up at the large cross tattoo over his heart. “Is she dead?”

He gives a single, slow nod.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

I can see it in his eyes, grief. The kind that settles into a person and never really leaves. My chest tightens.

I understand that look. My mom died when I was very little. I don't even remember her much.

I want to ask him more, about her, about his childhood. But I can already feel him pulling back, the walls sliding into place again. This is the most he’s ever shared with me. I don’t want to push and lose even this small piece of him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say softly.

His jaw shifts.