Page 158 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Four months ago, Esme and I had crossed paths in the bathroom of the Siren. There is a fairly good chance the child she’s carrying is mine.

But just because the timing’s right doesn’t mean anything. There could have been other men.

My blood just boils even hotter at that thought. The idea of another man with his hands on my wife makes me unreasonably murderous. I can taste the bitter metal of fury on my tongue.

Why should I care? She lied to me. She’s a liar.

And yet I do care.

It’s the most frustrating fucking merry-go-round of circular thinking I’ve ever experienced.

I can’t keep her.

I can’t let her go.

With another heavy sigh, I turn my back on Esme’s door and stride down the broad well-lit hallway.

Through the glass entryway doors, I can see my SUV waiting for me to take me to the meeting point that Cillian has arranged with Budimir.

I’m about three steps shy of breaking out into the Los Angeles sun when I feel a hand grab me by the back of the shirt collar and yank me into an empty room.

My reaction is immediate.

I seize the wrist of whoever the fuck is attacking me and rip it backwards. As I’m spinning around, my other hand finds the man’s throat. We go crashing to the ground together.

Our combined bulk careens into a shelf of some kind filled with cleaning supplies. Bottles of bleach and a pair of mops smack down on top.

I wrestle for control. Hands on his windpipe, crushing, squeezing the life from this fucking—

“Get off of me, you fucking moron,” hisses a familiar voice.

I stop, release. “Cillian?”

He sits up and wheezes. One hand rubs at the throat where I was just about to strangle him to death. My fingerprints are bright red on his pale skin.

“Well, I’m sure not the goddamn tooth fairy,” he grumbles.

Still seated on the cold tile floor of this supply closet, I slump back against the wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand. “I thought you were at the warehouse on Weston?”

“Lower your voice,” he snaps. He leans forward to peer through the slightly ajar door. “Did anyone see me grab you?”

“I don’t fucking—”

“Good.” He pulls the door closed. It plunges us into semi-darkness. Just enough light filters under the crack for me to see his bright blue eyes.

In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Cillian O’Sullivan fear a single thing.

Until now.

Now, he looks downright fucking terrified.

“Listen to me and listen to me closely, brother,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”

“You’re going to lecture me on time?” I interrupt. “Whoever attacked us could be coming back anytime now. We have no intel, we have no plan, we have no—”

“They already came back.”

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