Page 5 of Gilded in Blood

He seems amused. “That’s interesting,” he mutters, giving me a slow, deliberate once-over that makes my skin prickle. “You’re not as quiet as I was sold.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, princess, from what I heard, you were supposed to be the calm, obedient sibling. The quiet one who doesn’t cause trouble. But it seems you’ve grown a spine in England.”

His words light a spark of irritation in my chest.

I hate this. I hate when people assume that because I’m calm and quiet, I have no spine. That I’m soft. Breakable. There are things I’ve done, things I can do, that would make loud-mouthed people with “more spine” piss themselves. Just because I don’t scream and throw tantrums doesn’t mean I’m weak.

“Calm and quiet doesn’t mean spineless,” I snap, turning in my seat to face him fully. “It doesn’t mean I’m weak, and it sure as hell doesn’t give you permission to talk down to me. So, how about you do the job my brother is paying you for and drive?” I lift a brow, letting my voice drop into something deceptively sweet. “You were the one complaining about how long I was taking. Yet here you are, more interested in running your mouth than actually getting us out of here.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to say something cutting, something that would probably hurt me, but he changes his mind at the last second. Instead, his voice drops lower. “Watch your tone, Milana.”

The way he says my name, deep, rough, like it rolls off his tongue with too much familiarity, sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I want to hear it again.

Immediately. I shove the thought away, reminding myself I’m supposed to be annoyed with this arrogant stranger who’s already decided exactly who I am.

I choose to ignore him instead, and busy myself digging through my purse, checking that everything’s there, when I realize my cardholder is missing.

“Stop,” I say quickly. “I need to go back inside. My cardholder wasn’t with the rest of my things.”

Ilya glances at me, one hand still on the wheel. “What?”

“My card holder, it’s still at the station, and I need to get it.” I reach for the door handle.

He lets out a frustrated groan. “Stay in the car,” he orders, voice brooking no argument. “I’ll get it. You’ve walked around enough in that ridiculous dress already.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “My wardrobe is none of your business.” What the hell is his problem?

He groans again, a deep, frustrated sound that does strange things to my insides, and gets out. But as he does, an idea hits me. I slip out after him before he can close the door.

“Wait,” I call.

He turns, scowling. “What now? What else did you forget?”

“I need you to give something to someone inside.” I don’t wait for his reaction. I shrug off my blazer, then reach behind me and unzip the dress in one smooth motion. The cool night air hits my skin as the silky fabric pools at my feet.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ilya hisses, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Have you lost your senses? Stop!”

I ignore him, step out of the dress and quickly pull my blazer back on, buttoning it enough to cover my breasts, backside, and the lace underneath. It barely does the job.

“Could you ask one of the officers to give this to the blonde woman who was in the cell with me? She liked it.”

He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. For a split second, his gaze drops, dark, intense, before fury snaps back into place. His expression goes blank, then stormy. “Put your dress back on. Now.”

“No.”

“Milana. Put the damn dress back on,” he growls.

“No.” I hold it out to him.

He looks like he’s one second away from shoving me back into the dress himself. “Why the hell do you want to give your dress to a stranger you just met in a jail cell?”

I shrug one shoulder, completely unbothered. “She liked it. And I have plenty more. Now will you please take it to her?” I hold the silky fabric out to him. “The sooner you do it, the sooner we can leave. And don’t forget my card holder.”

He snatches the dress from my hand, muttering curses under his breath as he stalks toward the station doors. I catch a few colorful Russian words that make my lips twitch.

I lean against the car, arms crossed over my blazer, a small, satisfied smile curling my mouth.