Page 56 of Gilded in Blood

I stare at the list again. “How am I supposed to find this stuff? I don’t even know what half of these things look like.”

She crosses her arms, trying not to smile. “If I can’t come with you, then you’ll have to figure it out. Maybe ask someone for help.”

I groan, rubbing the back of my neck. “Ask a stranger in the grocery store what the hell a chanterelle is? No.”

She just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Fine,” I mutter. “You can come. Put on a hoodie, disguise yourself like last time. We’ll go together.”

Her face lights up. “Really?”

“Yes. But you stay close to me the entire time.”

She nods excitedly, then pauses. “I don’t have a hoodie anymore. I gave the one you lent me back. Think I can borrow it again?”

Something tightens in my chest at that. I don’t like that she returned it. I wanted her to keep it. The idea of her wearing my clothes again, something that marks her as mine, sends a low pulse of satisfaction through me.

“I’ll get it,” I say.

I walk to my room, grab the black hoodie from the closet, and bring it back.

When I hand it to her, we’re standing close. Too close. Her scent, the warmth of her body, the way she looks up at me, it hits me hard.

I want to kiss her.

The realization is unexpected. Last night, when she leaned in, I turned my face away on instinct. But the truth is, I wanted it. I still want it.

I want to taste her mouth, bite her lower lip until I draw blood, claim every soft sound she makes.

Kissing has always felt too intimate. I’ve never wanted it with anyone. Until her.

I clear my throat and step back, forcing distance between us.

“Go get dressed,” I say, voice rougher than I intend. “We leave in ten minutes.”

She takes the hoodie, a small smile playing on her lips, and heads toward her room.

We arrive at the upscale grocery store just as evening settles in. Thankfully, it’s not crowded, only a few people scattered through the aisles.

I grab a cart and Milana pulls the list from her pocket and reads off items. She knows exactly where everything is.

I follow her through the aisles, watching as she confidently picks out ingredients I’ve never heard of, explaining briefly what they’re for, how she’ll use them. Apparently ‘chanterelles’ are fancy mushrooms.

This girl grew up in one of the most powerful Bratva families in New York, surrounded by staff and luxury, and yet she moves through this store like she goes grocery shopping all the time.

She chats easily as we walk, pointing things out, asking my opinion on random items even though I have no idea what most of them are. It’s strangely domestic. Almost… normal.

She’s smiling, genuinely smiling. Happy just to be out of the penthouse for a little while.

It twists something in my chest. I hate that I can’t give her this more often. The last time I let her out, she nearly got shot.

The memory makes me scan our surroundings again, watching for threats even as she happily drops items into the cart.

We turn into a quieter aisle that has some home goods and small decorative items.

She slows down near a display of delicate snow globes. One catches her eye, a beautiful, intricate one with a glowing Manhattan skyline at night, tiny lights twinkling inside.

She picks it up gently, turning it in her hands. For a moment her expression softens, almost wistful. Then she places it back on the shelf with a small sigh.