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

can see only one dark eye, the straight dip of his nose, and the thin curve of his mouth.

But I can’t imagine this man in the life I’m envisioning for myself. A quiet home? Piano in the living room, a child’s laughter on the front lawn?

No blood. No guns. No gangs.

It just doesn’t mix. Artem and that future are like oil and water.

I turn my attention back to the road ahead, but my train of thought has led me back to what we left in Tamara’s apartment.

Mischa.

His name was Mischa.

He was trying to kill Artem. He was trying to abduct you. It was self-defense.

All the justifications I’ve built in my head still don’t stand up against the guilt, though. It’s like throwing pebbles at a stone wall. They just bounce off, useless.

Did he have a wife? Did he have children? What kind of music did he like?

I take a deep breath and try throwing my pebbles again.

If you hadn’t stabbed him, he would have killed Artem.

I take another breath. It doesn’t help much.

He was dead. But you kept stabbing him. Why did you keep stabbing him?

“Esme.”

I look at Artem with a start.

“You went somewhere dark,” he says softly.

I feel tears at the corners of my eyes. “I… I’m fine.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I open my mouth, but I shut it again just as quickly. “I think… not just yet.”

“I’ll be here when you change your mind.”

I feel so incredibly grateful that I reach out impulsively and take the hand he has resting against the center console between us. His fingers weave into mine easily and it feels so damn good that it crowds out all the worry and guilt battling inside me.

If only all of this was so easy.

If only one simple touch could fix everything.

We drive like that for another couple of hours before Artem pulls into a large mall off the interstate. The parking lot is huge but he manages to find a space close to the building.

Reluctantly, I let go of his hand and we walk towards the mall together.

As we enter, I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the reflective windows outside the building.

It amazes me how normal we look together, like an everyday couple spending their weekend in a mall. Nothing remarkable about us. You can’t see my dead brother in my eyes, or the ghost of the man I killed lurking just behind my every thought.

It’s just Esme and Artem.

Simple as that.

First, we head to the pharmacy on the first floor. I stock up on vitamins while Artem hovers over me looking anxious.

“First time parents?” the pharmacist asks, looking between the two of us.

“Yes,” I smile.

She nods. “It’s normal to worry,” she says. “But try and eliminate as much stress as possible. That’s the key to a healthy pregnancy.”

I almost laugh, but I hold it back just in time. We leave the pharmacy a few minutes later with a bag of vitamins tucked under my arm.

“Eliminate stress, huh?” I say. “That should be easy.”

Artem doesn’t even crack a smile, though. It has me slowing my pace a little.

I reach out and place my hand on his forearm.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says gruffly.

He tries to keeping walking, but I stay put. He’s forced to turn.

“Are you gonna start lying to me now?” I ask.

He sighs. “I guess, when it comes to the baby’s health, I don’t have much of a sense of humor.”

I take a step forward, right into his space in that familiar way you do when you’re comfortable with someone. I don’t even think about it—I just do it. I’m not sure what that means for us.

“The baby’s fine,” I tell him. “Strong.”

“How do you know that?” Artem asks.

“Call it mother’s intuition,” I answer carefully. “If something were wrong, I’d be able to tell.”

Artem nods slowly.

I realize how badly he needed to hear those words.

Without even thinking about it, I take his hand and we continue walking.

57

Artem

I sit outside the changing room, waiting on Esme and clicking the heel of my boot against the floor.

I’m not the most comfortable in these surroundings, probably because I don’t have much experience.

Okay, I don’t have any experience.

But Esme insisted she needed my opinion. And apparently, I’m fucked when she looks at me with those hazel-gold eyes.

Just then, she pushes aside the grey curtain of her dressing room stall and walks out in a white dress with bow tie straps and a tight, corset-like bodice that manages to pull in her stomach and highlight her breasts all at the same time.

“Well?” she asks. “What do you think?”

She gives me a little twirl so I can admire the way the fabric clings to the curves of her hips before fanning out at her waist. It’s a simple dress, but on her, it looks like a million fucking dollars.

“I think I’m this close to ripping that dress off you right fucking now,” I growl.

That earns me an alarmed glare from a middle-aged woman passing by.

Esme suppresses a giggle and tries her best to look harsh.

“Artem! You can’t say things like that out loud in public.”

“No wonder I don’t go out much.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but I can tell she’s pleased by the compliment.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that she’s only twenty-two. There are quiet moments when the silence stretches out and a haunted expression creeps onto her face. In those moments, I can tell that she’s reliving experiences no other normal twenty-two-year old has to contend with.

But for now, she’s just a girl trying on dresses. She looks distracted and happy.

Which is exactly the reason I swallow the intense discomfort, not to mention boredom I feel as I wait for her to tell me she’s done.

She needs this.

Esme goes back into her dressing room. To my utter relief, when she emerges again, she’s wearing the clothes she came in.

“Let me take that,” I say, reaching for the shopping bag she’s balancing on one arm.

“I can manage.”

“You shouldn’t be carrying heavy things,”