Page 18 of The Gilded Survivor

My ankle twisted and pain shot up my leg at the same moment my ass connected with the ground.

“Damn,” I hissed, tears already springing to my eyes. I watched the expertly-shined shoes of a chofer walk next to me. I looked up at him, feeling my face go hot with embarrassment. He didn’t seem to care as his eyebrows were drawn close together at the top of his head while he studied my face. I noted that he was middle-aged, with a smart blue and white uniform. He smelled of pressed laundry and simple soap.

“Let me help you, señorita,” the Trabajador said as he scooped his hands under my arms. “I am called Giancarlo.”

With his gentle assistance, I pushed myself up and attempted to put weight on the ankle that twisted. I cried out again and doubled over. If it had not been for the man next to me, I would’ve tumbled straight back to the cold hard sidewalk.

“Gracias,” I said tentatively. I was sure that my face was about as close to scarlet as it could get.

He smiled. “Of course,” he nodded. Then he glanced around the mostly empty street. “I don’t think it’s wise for an Élite as young and pretty as you to be walking alone. You’re injured. Please, come into my car and you can heal yourself while I take you wherever you need to go.”

I blinked. There was a lot to process, and his heat was seeping into me, short-circuiting my brain and making it hard to breathe. “What?” I tried to pull away, but he opened a door to the back seat and started helping me in.

“I work for the Melendez-Juárez family, but I just dropped off Doña Ayesa. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me helping you,” the driver said, closing the door.

Alone in the car, my palms were slick with sweat, and I felt my cheeks turn both hot and icy at once.

You can heal yourself while I take you where you need to go.

The card would present me with legitimacy when we reached the hotel, nor was there any reason to distrust my costume. He was expecting me to behave like any other Élite would.

Luckily for me, I could.

Sort of.

Blood Magic never turned people gold, but the mechanics of healing seemed to work the same.

I didn’t know who Doña Ayesa was, but I knew that if I didn’t walk out of this car in perfect condition he would call the authorities. My heart pounded in my chest. His tall form darkened the already tinted windows as he walked around and opened the door to the driver’s seat.

From the rearview mirror, I saw him watching me, and he smiled.

I blinked again, and snapped back to my senses. The reality of my situation came into focus like a set of magnifying lenses clarifying tiny text. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I regretted not taking money for a taxi.

My ankle was throbbing, and I was sitting on soft, polished-leather seats, and everything was covered in a soft shine. Rich sandalwood mixed with the scent of flowers to create something that smelled exquisite. Did it smell like this in here all the time?

It was like walking through a portal to an entirely different world.

I remembered my place and returned the smile.

His eyes flicked back to the road, as if he were trying to give me privacy.

Privacy to heal myself.

I sucked in a short breath, and leaned forward. My shaking hands felt the tender area, and I winced. So many years of hiding my secret, and I was supposed to use Blood Magic in front of a man I didn’t even know?

You will if you wish to stay out of danger,the voice of reason inside of me said.

Two steadying breaths later and I still wasn’t ready.

The few times I had used the magic were accidents—scraping my knee or slicing my leg open while trying to escape Guardias as a fourteen year old. Blood Magic was a dangerous, forbidden fruit growing off of my very own proverbial branches. A succulent berry which I hated, praying every night that it would rot.

“Everything all right back there?” the driver called. He must’ve seen me doubled over. “I can call someone for you, if you’d like.” Was that a hint of skepticism creeping into his tone?

I choked, which led to a series of coughs escaping my throat in a mangled sound. To be honest, the pain was nothing in comparison to the acidic hunk of ice which had appeared in my stomach. “Yes, sorry.”

“Of course, Señorita.” That time held definite hints of doubt.

There was no option: I needed to bleed and I needed to heal. The problem was… the golden skin. That wasn’t normal. What would his reaction be?

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