Page 7 of Gilded in Blood

I study his profile for a moment, the hard line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the wheel, and I find myself wanting to trace the veins on his hands. I quickly clear my throat. “So… do you do this often?”

“If you mean rescuing spoiled brats from their own bad decisions, no.”

I bristle instantly. “I’m not a spoiled brat.”

“Oh really?” His tone drips with skepticism.

“Yes, really. You know nothing about me.”

He turns his head slightly, and his gaze drops––slow, deliberate, heated, sliding over my bare legs, the hem of my blazer barely covering anything, the way I’m sitting in this ridiculous excuse for clothing.

The look is so intense it feels like a physical touch, dragging heat across my skin and making my breath catch. My thighs press together involuntarily.

“If you say so,” he drawls, voice lower now, rougher. “But I know everything I need to know.”

“Well, fuck you!”

The words fly out before I can stop them. I rarely curse. Almost never, but this man drags out the worst in me.

Ilya doesn’t even flinch. He glances back at the road, his voice low and laced with dark amusement. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that offer.”

Then his entire demeanor shifts. He checks the rearview mirror, and a sharp Russian curse slips from his lips.

“We’re being followed.”

CHAPTER THREE

Milana

The words send a chill racing down my spine that has nothing to do with the blasting AC.

“What?” I whip my head toward Ilya.

Ilya doesn’t answer. His jaw is locked, eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors. Fear spikes through me, I grip the edge of my seat as he reaches across with one hand, pops open the glove compartment, and pulls out a black gun like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I’m not new to guns. In our lifestyle, they are as common as morning coffee. But watching him handle it with such effortless precision, checking the magazine one-handed while accelerating hard, sends a different kind of shiver through me. This man does this all the time. He’s used to being chased.

“Do you know how to shoot?” he asks, voice calm but edged.

“Wait, what? Shoot? No, of course not.”

“Then you’d better get down.”

I’m still trying to process his words when he suddenly barks, “Get down! Now!”

A shot cracks through the night like thunder. Something slams into the back of the car with a metallic thud. I duck instantly, curling low in the seat as more gunfire erupts behind us.

The car swerves violently. Glass shatters, my side window explodes in a spray of shards that rain down over me. I cry out, covering my head with my arms.

Ilya is swearing under his breath in Russian as he fires back with one hand, the other still gripping the wheel. The car jerks sharply left, then right. Bullets ping off metal. Another window cracks.

The noise is deafening––gunshots, screeching tires, the roar of engines closing in. I can barely breathe, heart slamming against my ribs. For the first time in my life, I wish I knew how to shoot. I wish I could do something other than cower while Ilya risks everything to keep us alive.

The chaos feels endless. More curses spill from his lips. Another hard swerve. Then, gradually, the gunfire fades. The pursuing engines fall back.

“You can sit up,” he says, voice deep and steady.

I straighten slowly, glass crunching under me, my hands shaking as I brush shards from my hair. “What… what the hell was that?”