Page 75 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Talkative,” I grumble when I’m alone again.

I thought I locked the door the previous night, but either the lock is fake or everyone and their freaking mother gets a key to my room.

Feeling deflated and angry all at the same time, I walk into my en-suite bathroom and fill the tub with steaming water.

Then I strip out of the dress and clamber in. I wince as the water bathes my aching muscles. Those guards were not exactly gentle last night.

The tub is set right next to another massive window that looks over L.A. As I sit and soak, it feels like I’m floating in the sky, gazing down at the rest of the world.

I might even be able enjoy the moment—if thoughts of last night would just stop plaguing me.

Artem had answered the big question:If you’re not going to kill me, what do you want?

The answer was somehow stranger and more horrifying than I could’ve ever imagined.

Marriage.

He wants me as his wife. Willing or unwilling, fake or not, he doesn’t give a shit.

He just thinks I’m his golden ticket.

Which means I’ve gone from living in the clutches of one bad man who wants to marry me off for empire-building purposes, right to another.

The only difference is that this new bad man wants to marry me off to himself.

I shudder. How am I supposed to wrap my head around this crap?

I’m so confused that it makes my brain hurt. I’m trying to battle with the voices in my head, but even they don’t seem to agree.

Mostly because of this: a part of me is attracted to Artem.

It’s crazy to think that. I don’t dare voice the thought aloud.

But I can’t deny it. It’s true. That arrogant tilt to his lips, the wicked strength in his body, and those dark eyes that consume me with every glance…

It’s… a lot. That’s all I can really say about it.

So it’s safe to say that part of me is curious about the man beneath those harsh, beautiful features. About what makes him tick. What kind of soul there is—or if there’s a soul in there at all.

Curious, yeah. That’s a good word. Maybe even… hopeful?

But another part of me is desperate to get away from him.

He’s not going to be different.

He’s not going to love or respect you.

He’s going to use and discard you. And your child will grow up the same way you did—caged and lonely.

My hands flutter over my stomach.

The baby is his—there is no doubt of that.

But revealing that secret to Artem would bind me to him so completely that I’d never be able to escape.

I try and sort through the jumble of uncertainty in my head, but even after my skin has turned pruny, I can’t seem to find clarity.

These dilemmas will take more than one bath to resolve.

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