Page 48 of Gilded in Blood

We haven't had sex again. I don’t see much of him during the day. He’s been incredibly busy, leaving early, coming back late, always locked away in his study or gone for hours.

The only time we really spend together is just before bed.

He comes to my bedroom every night, and we make out for a while before, like clockwork, he slips away to his own room.

He still hasn’t kissed me. Not once. He kisses nearly every inch of my body every night, but never my lips. I keep wondering why.

Does he simply not want to? Is kissing too intimate for him? Or is there another reason?

The question circles in my head constantly, but I’m too proud to ask. I don’t want to sound desperate or needy.

I hold the hoodie for a moment longer. I should give it back. He’s in his study right now, working. I will just leave it in his bedroom.

Returning the hoodie gives me a reason to go into his bedroom. A room I’ve never been inside. The thought makes my stomach flutter with nerves and something warmer.

I fold the hoodie neatly, place it in the basket with the rest of the laundry, and head down the hallway toward his room.

Getting to his bedroom door, I hesitate for a second before pushing it open.

It’s noticeably larger than mine. The moment I step inside, the difference in atmosphere hits me. His room is darker, more masculine.

Deep charcoal walls, rich wooden tones, and black furniture that gives the room a luxurious feel.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline, but the overall feeling is shadowed, almost brooding. It suits him perfectly.

This room feels like an extension of Ilya himself, restrained, and a little dangerous.

In the center sits a massive bed, with dark sheets and a heavy, minimalist headboard. Everything is neat, precise, almost military in its order.

I walk over and carefully place his hoodie on the bed, setting the laundry basket beside it.

For a moment, I simply stand there, taking it all in, trying to picture Ilya in this room.

Does he sprawl across the bed, or sleep on one side? Does he toss and turn? Does he sleep naked?

My fingertips drift over the smooth surface of his nightstand, gliding along the edge of the heavy wooden dresser.

I notice a worn, leather-bound copy of Faith resting on the nightstand. It looks old, the edges softened and frayed from years of being opened and read.

For some reason, I never pictured Ilya as the type to keep a book like this on his nightstand.

I know he’s religious. He told me as much. But I never imagined his faith ran this deep.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I pick it up and open the cover. On the first page, in elegant handwriting, is a dedication:

To my beloved son, Kirill. May this book remind you that even in darkness, faith can be your light. With all my love, always — Mama

Why does he have a book dedicated to someone named Kirill? A mother’s dedication to her son…

Could Kirill be his brother? Does Ilya have a brother? Or is this a friend?

I quickly close the book and set it back exactly where I found it, my pulse racing. I shouldn’t have touched it. I shouldn’t even be in here.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of online classes and pro bono work. I throw myself into it, attending lectures, taking notes, then diving into my latest case notes for the advocacy center.

Maria misses our meeting. I try calling her, but she doesn't answer, so I send her a text asking if she's okay and to let me know when she'd like to reschedule. Recovery isn't a straight line, and every now and then she misses a session.

By evening, I’m mentally exhausted but my body feels restless, trapped inside these walls for too long.