Page 143 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

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Esme

When I wake up, I’m alone.

I reach out and touch the other side of the mattress. Even though it bears the indent from Artem’s body, it’s cold, too.

Wherever he went to, he’s been gone for a little while at least.

There’s a cold draft blowing from somewhere unseen. The thin sheet on the bed isn’t enough to warm me, so I get up and look around for my clothes.

I see them folded neatly on a chair at the corner of the room by the window.

I pad over and slip on my bra and panties. I’m reluctant to put on the black dress again, but I have nothing else to wear.

There’s a delicious soreness between my legs. And an emptiness, too.

I’m already longing for Artem, desperate for him to fill me again, make me come again.

Going down on him was probably the single most erotic moment of my life. With him in my mouth, it was like I could play his body like a piano. Coax moans and growls from his mouth. Makes his hips twitch and demand more, more, more from me.

And I wanted to give it to him. I wanted to givemyselfto him.

So I did. And he gave himself right back to me. Until we both went tumbling over the edge together and fell asleep in one tangled, sweaty mess.

I hear murmurs just outside the bedroom door. I recognize Artem’s deep, authoritative voice. There’s someone else out there with him, too.

I open the door and peek outside. It’s still too dark in the predawn hours to see anyone, so I step out into the narrow landing and walk down a little to the closed door of the room adjacent to this one.

I think about knocking and walking in, but I don’t know who he’s with and I don’t want to interrupt.

I’m about to go back to the bedroom and wait for him to finish his conversation—when I catch my name.

“…Esme…”

I freeze.

It’s wrong to eavesdrop. Artem is the don now, and practically the first hour on his watch was marred with a vicious ambush. I’m sure he’s busy as hell.

But I can’t help myself.

I inch closer, unable to turn away now. I press my ear to the door and realize that the voices are coming through clearly.

“…we’re trying to find out…”

I pick up the distinct Irish accent and I realize that Artem’s in there with his blonde friend, the one who’d offered me his elbow at the funeral.

Cillian, I recall with a ping.

“… motherfuckers thought we’d be vulnerable at the funeral… We’re going to hit back… fucking hard. How many men did you pick up?”

“There were no survivors,” Cillian replies. “There was one we caught alive, just barely. He drowned in his own blood before we could get anything out of him.”

I cringe at the gory details. But the two men are as calm as if they’re just discussing the weather.

“Were they marked in any way?” Artem asks. “Any identifiers? Tattoos?”

“I checked every body and weapon myself,” Cillian says. “There was nothing, which was obviously deliberate. Whoever mounted the attack didn’t want it to be traced back.”

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