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

fine sand as we walk and Esme bumps into me a little. I reach out to steady her.

But afterwards, I find it difficult to pull my hand away.

So I don’t.

My fingers snake down to find hers. I can feel her surprise, her hesitation, in the tense way she’s grasping my hand back, but a few seconds later, she relaxes and returns pressure.

When we get up to the house, Esme turns to me, and there’s a bright hopefulness in her eyes that I haven’t seen before.

It makes me feel hopeful, too.

“There’s sand everywhere,” she says, and we both burst out laughing. Her hand stays clasped in mine. “Can you give me a few minutes? I want to shower before breakfast.”

“Of course,” I nod, releasing her fingers reluctantly.

She gives me a thoughtful parting smile and heads upstairs. I watch her go, memorizing the way her hips sway ever so slightly when she moves.

I go to the kitchen and check my phone resting on the island. I frown when I see that I have four missed calls from Cillian as well as a text.

Artem, call me as soon as you get this message.

He probably just wants to tell me about the threesome he scored last night or something equally idiotic. But with Esme still showering, I decide to humor him.

I dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

“So how big were the tits?” I tease. “I’m sure some kind of Guinness World Record, right?”

He doesn’t laugh.

“Oh, so it’s a bad morning-after report,” I continue. “You ended up with someone’s granny? Did she at least bake you some—”

“Artem,” my best friend interrupts in a voice I’ve only ever heard from him once before—when he found me after Marisha was killed.

Dread pools in the pit of my stomach at once.

“What’s wrong?” I demand hoarsely. “What’s happened? Tell me what the fuck happened.”

“Artem, my brother…” Cillian says again.

There’s no trace of laughter in his tone. Just pain and sorrow.

“If you don’t fucking spit it out—”

“Your father is dead, Artem.”

I grip the phone a little tighter. That can’t be right. I must’ve misheard him. Because if Stanislav is dead…

“You’re the don now.”

35

Esme

The water feels amazing against my gritty skin. I wash off the last remnants of sand and step out of the shower.

Once I’ve toweled off, I stare at my naked body in the mirror. Almost four months in, my pregnancy is still not too obvious, but I’m seeing more and more changes with each passing day.

Belly not as flat. Hips a little wider. Are my breasts bigger too?

Maybe. I can’t quite tell if it’s all real or just my mind playing tricks on me.

The idea of telling Artem about the baby feels right all of the sudden. Like it’s so obviously the perfect time.

Just the thought of sharing this with him actually has me smiling like a loon, of all things.

I might actually be going insane.

Or not. Or maybe insane in a good way. Who knows anymore?

All I know is that something significant has shifted between us. It’s been a slow burn these last few days but last night was a turn in the tide.

And then this morning was—well, to beat the metaphor to death, this morning was a tidal wave.

A blush taints my cheeks. I wrap the towel back around myself, even as my mind is still racing with the images.

Artem on top of me, his cock poised between my legs.

Artem’s lips on my neck as he shoved into me with the kind of power that I didn’t think any man possessed.

Artem’s eyes, the way he had looked at me as we coasted down from our peaks.

What strikes me most about what we just shared—it wasn’t just hot sex.

It wasn’t just great sex.

It was tender sex.

He held me, he caressed me, he looked me in the eye.

In that moment, I didn’t feel like I was his captive. And I certainly didn’t feel like I was being forced into anything.

No. In that moment, as crazy as it sounds… I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Which is why the idea of telling Artem about the baby is almost… exciting.

I’m still nervous, still unsure of what his reaction might be. But there’s something damn near fateful about it. Maybe it’s meant to be?

Trying not to smile like an idiot, I walk back into my room to dress.

And come to a screeching halt when I see Artem in there already.

My smile dies instantly. He’s rifling through my drawers in a fury and shoving all my clothes back into the branded suitcases some unseen housekeeper had packed before our departure to come here.

“Artem, what are you doing?”

All the joy I felt a moment before evaporates into thin air when he turns to me.

His eyes belong to a stranger.

They’re dark, of course, like always.

But dark in a different way. Haunted, maybe. Like he’s not really seeing anything in front of him at all.

His face is cold, cut from stark lines that remove any trace of softness from his features.

“We’re heading back,” he replies, flat and hoarse. It’s a stranger’s voice in a stranger’s face.

I feel a chill ripple over my skin.

“Now?”

“Now.”

He clamps my suitcase shut and glances unfeelingly at the towel around my chest. Not an ounce of the warmth or passion that was burning up there just a few short minutes ago.

“Put on some clothes and meet me downstairs. I’ll send someone to collect the suitcases.”

Reeling from the mental and emotional whiplash, I grab his arm as he passes by me.

“Artem, what the hell is going on?”

He stares down at me. I see a blip of emotion flash across his eyes.

A second later, they’re dead again.

“Just get dressed,” he repeats.

He rips his arm from mine and leaves the room.

What changed so fast?

My hands fly to my stomach as I try to process Artem’s sudden personality change. The man puts Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to shame. “Hot and cold” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

It’s like we went from the core of the sun to the