Page 110 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

I close my eyes and sink into the music.

And for a moment, it feels good.

But it doesn’t last long.

Because Artem’s face appears suddenly in my mind’s eye. Jolts me back to reality.

I have to face the truth: there’s no “losing myself” from this mess. There’s no easy escape button.

If I want out, I have to getmyselfout.

If not for my own sake, then for the sake of the child in my womb.

I open my eyes again with a weary sigh. It’s getting dark. I can’t see the boat out on the harbor anymore.

But when I turn my head to the side, I realize why.

Because Artem is here now.

He’s leaning against the open doorway that links this room to the kitchen. Arms crossed over his bare chest, dark eyes locked on me, and the faintest ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

I gasp. The melody dies at once with a harsh clang.

“Jesus!” I exclaim.

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at me calmly, a muscle twitching slightly in his jaw.

“How long have you been standing there?” I demand. “You scared the hell out of me!”

His eyes dip down to my breasts. The bikini top I’m wearing suddenly feels like a negligent wisp of fabric that serves no purpose. I might as well be naked.

“When did you learn to play?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“I started when I was four. My father flew in an instructor from Italy.”

“That’s young.”

“I was lonely. The music made me less lonely.”

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. But it’s too late to recant them.

He moves closer and sits down on an embroidered sofa chair adjacent to the piano. “What else did you do?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Apart from playing the piano, what else did you do to fill your time growing up?” he asks.

I’m so taken back by his interest in my childhood that I answer honestly. “School.”

“Joaquin sent you to a school?” Artem asks, surprised.

I shake my head. “I was home-schooled. That teacher was from Switzerland. The tennis coach was from France, in case you were wondering. The sewing teacher was Canadian, the cooking teacher was Spanish, and the man who taught me to shoot guns was just like you.”

“He was Russian?”

“No, he was an asshole.”

To my surprise, he laughs at that. I expected a harsher reaction.

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