Page 69 of Gilded in Blood

The man’s entire body jerks.

A ragged sob escapes him as his freed arm drops limply into his lap. He cradles the wrist against his chest, wincing as blood slowly begins flowing back into it.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

I move to the second wrist. It takes another attempt before that chain finally breaks too.

Then I move to his legs. I work the bolt cutters around the shackles at his ankles. One by one, the chains give way, each snap echoing through the room until the last length of steel falls to the floor.

The man stares at his freed limbs as though he can’t quite believe they’re his again.

Still wary, I take a step back, keeping a firm grip on the hammer.

“If you try anything,” I warn, lifting it slightly, “I won’t hesitate to cave your head in.”

A weak, humorless smile flickers across his bruised face.

“I couldn’t hurt you even if I wanted to.”

My gaze drops to his trembling legs. He’s right. In his condition, he’d barely make it two steps before collapsing.

I loosen my grip on the hammer just a fraction. “Can you stand?”

He nods weakly.

He tries. The moment he puts weight on his legs, they buckle beneath him.

I drop the hammer on the floor and lunge forward, catching him before he hits the concrete.

“Easy,” I murmur, wrapping his arm over my shoulder.

He nods weakly and pushes himself upright, his entire body trembling with the effort. For a second, I think he’s going to collapse again.

Then he looks at me for a long moment, his bloodshot eyes narrowing like he’s trying to place me. Then his face changes.

“Milana?” he whispers.

I freeze. “How do you know my name?”

He takes a shaky step forward. “Because your brothers hired me.” He swallows painfully. “I was supposed to extract you from England.”

I frown. “What? That's not possible. What's your name?”

“Ilya.”

I stare at him, stunned. “What? No, you're not.”

He sags against me, struggling to stay conscious. “Please… just help me get out of here.”

I hesitate for a second before slipping my arm farther around his waist, bracing myself beneath his weight. He’s heavier than he looks.

We make it up the stairs slowly, him leaning heavily on me the whole way. When we finally reach the apartment, I'm breathing hard.

I help him to the kitchen island and ease him onto one of the stools.

I grab a glass, fill it with water, and hand it to him.

He drains it in desperate gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks. His hands shake so violently that water spills down his chin and onto his filthy shirt.