Page 165 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

She doesn’t know that he’s after me—and by extension, after her.

But she escaped anyway.

Which begs the question… who is she escaping from?

46

Esme

A few people glance at my bare feet as I walk past them, but I ignore the stares and keep going.

It isn’t until I’ve walked out of the park, down a few alleys, and fifteen minutes into the heart of L.A. that I realize I don’t actually know where I’m going.

After all, who do I have left to run to?

Ghosts.

I have only ghosts.

I try and shake the morbid thought from my head. But it refuses to budge. My stomach roils with hunger and my body aches as it withdraws from the drugs that have been pumped into my system since I collapsed in the Bratva safehouse.

I know I need to get off the streets as fast as possible, but my head keeps running in circles, making me even more tired, even more confused.

I end up sinking onto a bench by the side of the street, looking up at a massive billboard of a scarlet-lipped model in black lace lingerie.

I shouldn’t stop. I should keep moving. Artem could be anywhere.

But I’m just so, so tired.

The billboard model stares at me seductively, her lips parted ever so slightly.

She makes me feel… unsettled.

Probably because she’s completely and utterly dead in the eyes. It scares me how much I relate to that expression.

“I have to get indoors,” I mumble up to her. As if this 2D bimbo gives a shit about me, or about anyone. “Somewhere safe and hidden, so he doesn’t find me.” My stomach rumbles again. “Preferably somewhere with food.”

She doesn’t even blink.

With a sigh, I let my gaze fall from the billboard to a coffee shop nestled across the street.

There’s a couple sitting at one of the outdoor tables. They lean in towards each other, foreheads pressed together and dreamy smiles on their faces, oblivious to everything around them.

A fat piece of cake sits between them on the table.

Red velvet, unless my eyes deceive me. The things I would do for a single bite…

Out of nowhere, a prickly sense of unease skims over my body. That “someone’s watching me and they don’t have good intentions” spidey sense that every woman in public knows all too well.

My first thought is laced with panic.

It’s Artem.

He’s found me.

I whirl around one hundred and eighty degrees.

Sure enough, there’s a man behind me.

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