Gilded Cage: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 1) Nicole Fox (people reading books TXT) 📖

from replying, but if I could speak, I’d tell him what I’m thinking: I can always cut off your finger, you son of a bitch.

One corner of his mouth turns up in the ghost of a smirk.

“I wouldn’t try anything stupid. Follow me.”

The penthouse is massive, opulent, and completely devoid of color. Black granite, dark wood cabinets, paintings on the wall that are—I shit you not—just canvases painted delicately in various shades of gray.

It’s utterly lifeless.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from a blank bronzed wall that’s bare except for the two doors standing right next to each other.

“The one on the right is yours.” He points to indicate. “Now, if I untie you, are you going to promise to behave?”

I nod slowly.

He comes forward and reaches behind my head to remove the gag on my mouth first. My lips feel raw and I run my tongue over them.

Artem’s eyes flick down to follow the gesture. A sudden twist of tension seizes in my stomach. I don’t say a word, nor does he.

But his hand drifts slowly to wipe away a strand of spit from my chin. His thumb is hot and gentle against my skin.

It’s a weirdly tender gesture. Possessive, like he’s cleaning off something delicate and cherished.

It sends a chill down my spine.

But it’s over as soon as it started. Artem blinks and his touch disappears from my face.

He shakes his head subtly and moves to undo the restraints around my hands. When they’re gone, I rub my wrists with relief as the blood rushes back to my fingertips.

Then, without hesitation, I slap him hard across the face.

Oh, hell yes. That felt so fucking good.

I brace myself for his fury. For a retaliatory slap, a punch, a kick…

But he doesn’t move. His hands massages his jaw for a moment before he looks at me.

“Feel better now?” he asks calmly. “Did you get that out of your system?”

That only serves to infuriate me further.

“You may think you’re strong and powerful,” I spit at him. “You may think you’re the boss. But you’re not. You’re nothing but a boy pretending to be a man.”

I see his eyes flash with anger.

I’m not gonna stick around and see what happens next.

Instead, I brush past him and run into the room he said was mine.

I fumble with the lock, my hands trembling. Luckily, it clicks almost instantly. I don’t expect that to stop him—no doubt he has a key—but it’s just instinct. If nothing else, it makes me feel better.

I back away from the door, breath caught in my throat. He’ll be bursting through any second to storm in and teach me another lesson.

Maybe he just went to get something first—more restraints, a belt, a knife.

Hell, maybe he went to get a gun to finish what he started. Why should I trust that he’s not going to kill me?

But as the seconds tick past, the door stays shut.

No motion.

No Artem.

Just silence.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime of standing still, I accept that he’s leaving me alone in here—for now.

So I turn and take in my surroundings.

A large floor-to-ceiling window takes up most of the front-facing wall. No balcony, but there’s a cushioned window seat bathed in sunlight.

Shelves line the other walls, brimming with books. I meander past, touching the spines as I go.

The center of the wall opposite the window is devoted to a massive king bed with an imposing steel frame looming above it. Still, the room is so big that the mattress seems small in comparison.

I walk over to the window seat. It’s large enough to be a bed in its own right.

I sink into the cushions and stare out onto the city.

He’s brought me back to L.A.

I recognize the skyline from my last trip… the same one that had led to our heat-filled encounter in the bathroom of The Siren.

Artem had been my hero in that moment. My guardian angel, my white knight.

Now… he’s my own personal monster.

The trauma of the last several hours settles over me. My eyes grow heavy, weighted down by turmoil and the last remaining fragments of the sedative I was jabbed with before leaving Mexico…

A small part of my subconsciousness is aware that I’m sleeping when I see my brother standing in front of me.

Cesar looks different than he did in life. Older, but I can’t tell why. I guess it’s the look in his eyes more than anything.

He reaches for me at the same time I reach for him, but we’re too far apart. Our fingers touch nothing but empty space.

He mouths something.

“What?” I call out.

He mouths it again, but I still can’t hear what he’s saying.

“Speak up, Cesar,” I beg. “I can’t hear you.”

He sighs. Shrugs. Then fades away.

When he disappears, I’m suddenly standing alone in a black fog. The only thing I’m aware of is the little fluttering sensation in my stomach.

I look down and see my belly. My child moves inside me and tears spring to my eyes.

This should be a happy moment.

But it’s not happiness I feel.

It’s sadness, laced with fear.

Fear that’s growing, morphing, intensifying. It climbs up from my belly and into my throat like it wants to choke me out. It’s got tentacles on my ribs and they’re squeezing so hard that I can’t breathe and I’m suffocating and it hurts like I’m being stabbed and oh, God, I’m—

I wake up.

I must’ve been sleeping for hours. The room is dark and oppressive now. L.A’s skyline sparkles proudly down below me.

I turn to the room and wince at the crick in my neck from my awkward sleeping position.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Which is why I don’t see him until I’m on my feet, halfway to the bed.

I gasp and stifle a scream as I freeze in place.

Artem is seated in the leather armchair in one corner of the room. His eyes catch the light of a skyscraper and flash.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I demand,