Page 210 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

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 haveanyexperience.

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’mthisclose 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,” I tell her firmly, lifting the bag off her arm.

“It’s hardly heavy,” she says with amusement, but I ignore her.

I’m not taking any fucking chances with her or this baby.

As we head to the cash register, Esme falls into step beside me. I slow down to make sure she doesn’t have to hurry to keep up.

“How are you gonna pay for all this?” she asks, with new concern.

I raise my eyebrows at her. “You think I don’t have money on me?”

“You’re not going to use a credit card, are you?” she asks in alarm.

“Baby, this ain’t my first rodeo.”

She fake-shudders. “Go back to the Russian accent. ‘Cowboy’ doesn’t suit you.”

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