Page 9 of Gilded in Blood

She turns to me, still clutching the hem of that ridiculous blazer. “I need to take a shower.”

“No time,” I say flatly. “We need to get moving.”

Milana gives me a look that says she’s not backing down. “I need to clean up. I’ll be quick, five minutes, tops. I can’t leave like this, I stink of blood and sweat.”

I clench my jaw but nod. She grabs a bag and disappears into the ensuite bathroom, closing the door behind her. I sit on the edge of her bed, trying to stay focused on the job.

Big mistake.

All I can think about is her in there. Naked. Water sliding down that velvety skin I felt under my hands earlier. Those creamy thighs that were on full display during the entire car ride.

The way her ass cheeks peeked out from under the blazer when she walked. My cock twitches hard at the images flooding my brain. I stand up abruptly and adjust myself, cursing under my breath.

This is new. I don’t get like this. I don’t lose control over a woman, especially not one I’m supposed to be protecting. She’s a job. Nothing more. I need to get my head straight.

Needing to distract myself, I step out into the living room, pull out my burner phone, and dial.

The man on the other end picks up immediately. “Boss.”

“How is he?” I ask, voice low.

“Still unconscious.”

“Good. Keep him chained. No food. No water. Make him understand that the only thing standing between him and a very painful death is his willingness to talk. I expect answers before I return. I’ll be back within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Got it.”

I hang up and slip the phone into my pocket, forcing my mind back into mission mode. When I walk back into her bedroom, Milana is already out of the shower.

She’s standing there in tight black pants that hug her legs and a tiny black bralette that leaves her entire stomach exposed. The cut on her abdomen is still visible, angry and red. A first aid kit sits open on the bedside table.

She looks up at me, almost shy for the first time tonight. “Can you help me clean this? It’s hard to reach properly.”

I swear under my breath, the word rough and low in Russian. This is pure fucking torture.

I walk toward her anyway, every step feeling like a dangerous mistake. I move to the bed and sit down, opening the first aid kit with more force than necessary. Milana walks over without hesitation and steps right between my spread legs, standing close enough that her bare stomach is level with my face.

Fuck.

The scent of her hits me immediately, warm jasmine and something softly sweet, like fresh blossoms on her damp skin. It wraps around me, clean and feminine, stirring something dangerous low in my gut.

All I can think about is dragging my tongue across that velvety expanse, tasting the water still clinging to her, following the trail down to where her black pants sit low on her hips.

I examine the cut and luckily it’s shallow. I grab a cotton pad and antiseptic, keeping my movements brisk. The moment I press the pad to the cut on her stomach, she flinches.

“Hold still,” I mutter, voice rougher than I intend.

Her hands come up instinctively, resting on my shoulders for balance. The touch burns through my shirt. On any other day, with anyone else, I would have knocked their hands away instantly. I hate being touched. But her fingers on me… they don’t irritate me. If anything, I want them to dig in harder.

I keep cleaning the wound, jaw clenched so tight it aches. She’s so close I can feel the heat of her body, watch the way her stomach trembles slightly under my touch. Her bralette leaves nothing to the imagination, and every breath she takes makes her chest rise and fall inches from my face.

“Who were those people shooting at us?” she asks quietly, her voice a little breathless.

“Most likely Michael’s men,” I answer, dabbing at the cut. “That’s why we need to move fast. Before they catch up.”

“Okay.”

She stays quiet for a moment, fingers still curled on my shoulders. “It’s strange, though. That my brothers sent you. I don’t know you. Normally they would’ve sent someone I’m familiar with.”