Page 131 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

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 wastendersex.

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.

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