Page 8 of Gilded in Blood

We’re already approaching my dorm building. The familiar lights of the university residences come into view, almost surreal after the violence. I glance at Ilya and catch him looking at me from the corner of his eye, his expression darkening.

I follow his gaze downward.

My blazer is torn open across my stomach. Blood is seeping through the fabric, dark and wet against the pale material. I press my fingers to it carefully and wince. It stings, but it’s not deep, just a graze, it must have been from flying glass or a close bullet. The bleeding isn’t heavy, but it’s enough to make my stomach roll.

I look back at him, breath still ragged. The night has officially gone from bad to terrifying.

Ilya

I glance at the cut on her stomach again, blood slowly seeping through the torn fabric of her blazer. “Are you hurt?”

Milana shakes her head, still a little breathless. “No, I’m fine. It’s just a tiny cut.”

She says it casually, but I know better. Bodies go into shock after shit like this. I’ve seen it too many times, men who thought they were fine until they dropped.

Before I can stop myself, I'm out of the car. I stride to her side, yank open the door, and lean in. My hands move over her automatically, patting down her arms, her sides, her shoulders, searching for injuries she might have missed, for wounds hidden beneath the adrenaline.

Big fucking mistake.

The second my palms make contact with her warm skin, a sharp zap of electricity shoots straight through me. It’s intense. Unfamiliar. Nothing like the detached way I usually touch people. I yank my hands back like she burned me.

Our faces are suddenly too close. I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel-gray eyes, smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the metallic hint of blood. For one dangerous second, I almost lean in and kiss her.

What the fuck is going on with you?

I pull away sharply and put some distance between us. “You okay?”

“It’s just a tiny cut,” she repeats. “Probably glass. I have a first aid kit inside. I’ll clean it up when I get in.”

“Get down then.”

A small, teasing smile curves her lips. “Aww, look at you being all worried about me. A minute ago, you looked like you wanted to rip my head off.”

I shake my head slowly, fighting for control as I hold her door open. “Get the fuck down, Milana. We don’t have time for this.”

She finally listens, tugging that pathetic excuse for a blazer down over her ass as she walks toward the dorm entrance. My eyes betray me for a split second, catching the way her ass cheeks peek out with every step. I force my gaze up and ahead.

When I got this job, they described Milana Morozov as timid. Quiet. Barely speaks unless spoken to. The photo I was shown made her look like a sheltered teenager. This woman in front of me is none of those things. She’s a full-grown firecracker with dangerous curves, legs that go on forever, and a mouth that doesn’t know when to stay shut.

And her skin, God, her skin… focus, you idiot.

We reach her dorm, an aging brick building looming against the darkness. At two in the morning, the campus is eerily quiet, with only a handful of windows still lit.

I don't relax until we're standing outside her door on the third floor. Just as she reaches for the handle, I place a hand on her shoulder.

"Stay behind me."

She snorts. “Dad, there’s nothing in there.”

Dad? I ignore the jab and clear the small shared living area first, two couches, a tiny kitchenette, textbooks scattered on the coffee table. Typical student dorm. No threats. I motion her forward.

“How the hell did your brothers let you come all the way out here alone?” I mutter under my breath. A Bratva princess this nonchalant about her safety doesn’t make sense.

She leads me down a short hallway to her bedroom. The moment I step inside, the space screams her. Soft lighting, a neatly made bed with crisp white sheets and a few elegant throw pillows in muted grays and deep burgundies.

Books on criminal law and forensic psychology are stacked on her desk and nightstand. A small corkboard holds photos of her with friends, and a couple of elegant prints on the walls.

I stay by the door, scanning every corner while she moves to her closet. “Pack fast,” I tell her. “We’re not staying long. Those bastards might circle back.”