Page 155 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

He’s leaving.

A door on the far side of the room opens. I risk a peek. It’s a little easier to open my eyes this time. Enough that I can make out some more vague details of where I am.

There are two armed guards stationed on opposite sides of the room, one near the window and the other near the door.

“Olezka. Sacha,” Artem says to them. His tone contains harsh, confident authority. “I need to step out for an hour. Two at the most. You both are to remain here with my wife. Do not let her out of your sight. If you so much as blink too long, I’ll have your heads on a platter. Is that understood?”

The way he talks about me makes my stomach churn.

Mywife.

Just a possession. His property.

I’ve only ever been a pawn in a game to him.

“Yes, Don Kovalyov,” his sheep bleat without inflection.

I’m only a pawn in a game to them, too.

A pretty bird in a gilded cage.

But not for long.

As soon as Artem leaves, I’m getting out of this fucking room.

Out of this fucking city.

Out of this fucking life of crime and violence and murder and hatred.

I won’t be caged anymore.

How exactly I’m going to manage that is still up in the air.

Artem said he’d be gone for an hour or two. That means a clock has begun—because I intend to be gone by the time he gets back.

When I hear the door click shut, I risk peeking out through my half-closed eyes. There’s no one left but my two stone-faced guards.

Now what?

I spend the next few minutes peeking around. Subtly, though, so my guards don’t notice I’m awake and call Artem to come back.

I’m definitely in a hospital room of some kind, although it seems somehow cozier than any hospital room I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s just some sort of private, rich people hospital that only men like Artem have access to.

The guards are both armed with massive automatic rifles, which also seems like it is some kind of healthcare faux pas. Not to mention total overkill for one pregnant girl in a hospital bed.

Beyond that, there’s not much to check out. The window in one wall just looks up at empty blue sky. Occasionally, a machine beeps.

A few minutes go by like that. Just scouting and brainstorming.

At the end of that window, my plan consists of… jack shit.

If I so much as twitch wrong, the guards will notice. And there’s no telling how my body will respond if I try to just sprint for freedom.

Not to mention the fact that there’s still an IV needle jammed into the back of my hand.

Think, Esme. Think.

A ringing phone interrupts before any good ideas strike.

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