Page 22 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I brush another flyaway back from her sweaty forehead.

“Tammy, hon? You feeling a little better?”

“Urgh,” is all she can muster up.

At least she’s stopped puking. She slumps against one wall of the bathroom stall and sighs deeply, grimacing.

There’s still a dribble of vomit running down one side of her mouth. I grab some toilet paper and rush to the marble sink to wet the corner slightly. Then I dart back to Tamara and clean her up a bit.

She just lies there, nearly lifeless, her eyes fluttering closed. It’s like cleaning up a corpse.

“Tamara.” I pat her cheek. “Hey, babe, let’s go back to your apartment okay? You can sleep when we get there.”

“No,” she whines, closing her eyes on me. “I’m so tired. Lemme rest.”

I’m somewhat reassured by the fact that she’s talking in full, coherent sentences again, and her color definitely looks better.

But she needs rest, and she’s most definitely going to have a killer hangover in the morning.

“We’re in a bathroom,” I remind her. “We’re in aclubbathroom, Tam-Tam. You’ll feel better in your own bed.”

“Five more minutes,” she tells me like a petulant child. “Please? I just wanna rest…”

She trails off there, leaving me kneeling in front of her, frustrated and exhausted.

Fine. I suppose I can give her a few minutes.

I position Tamara against the wall of the stall so that she doesn’t slump over onto the ground, then I go back over to the sink to wash my hands.

I’m still rinsing my hands when I feel eyes on me.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I raise my gaze to the back-lit mirror in front of me.

That’s when I seehisreflection in the mirror.

He’s standing right behind me, leaning against the doorframe with a scowl on his face.

It’s the man from the bar, the one who offered to buy me a drink just before Tamara threw up.

Boulder Man.

7

Esme

I whirl around to face him. “What are you doing in here?”

He looks perfectly relaxed as he stares at me. There’s even a smile on his face.

But it’s not a nice smile. It’s the kind that makes your legs heavy with fear.

He looks even bigger in this small, fluorescent bathroom than he did out by the bar. His head nearly brushes against the ceiling.

He flexes his hands like he can’t wait to tear me limb from limb.

“Our conversation was cut short,” he rumbles acidly. “I wanted to finish it.”

My heart thunders painfully in my chest as instinct tells me to run. To scream. Get away from this man as fast as I can.

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