Page 183 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Heavy, angry footsteps.

The kind made by dangerous men with violent intentions.

Esme hears it, too. She freezes in place, her skin flushing with adrenaline and fear.

I have just enough time to push her behind me before the door blasts open.

51

Esme

Artem shoves me behind him just as the door blasts apart.

Bratva soldiers pour into the apartment with guns raised, barking orders in Russian that I don’t understand.

“Esme!” Artem roars. “Stay down.”

The Russian continues, loud and grating. I hear a scream that sounds distinctly female but I have no idea where it’s coming from.

Had I just screamed? Was that me?

I find cover behind the white sofa and peer from around it. I can’t see Artem, but I can see two of the Bratva soldiers crowding the doorway.

They’re dressed in all black, with masks covering their faces, revealing only their eyes.

I don’t even know if Artem has a gun on him. Does he have any weapons on him at all? He’d passed me a knife in the kitchen, but—

I look down only to realize that I’m still clutching the knife in my hand. My palms are sweaty and the hilt feels lose in my grip. My own heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.

Breathe, Esme. Just breathe. Don’t leave Artem out there alone.

Two of the masked Bratva soldiers stride towards Artem at the same time. It strikes me as strange that no one has used a firearm yet, but in the next second, I realize why.

This is bad guy versus bad guy.

No one wants to bring the police down on this situation.

The moment a gun goes off, the people in the neighboring apartments will be dialing 911.

Artem’s eyes are trained on his assailants as they charge at him. He doesn’t move until the last second—not until the lead soldier is right on top of him.

Then he moves, faster than I would have thought possible.

He ducks under the soldier’s raised arm, punches him in the gut once, and then goes for his face.

He lands one elbow to the face before grabbing the soldier by the neck from behind and slamming him against the same wall he fucked me against.

His movements are fast and confident. His eyes never veer from his target.

It looks almost like a choreographed fight scene—except that Artem’s the only one aware of the moves.

Luckily for us, Tamara has a narrow entryway to her apartment. Only a few soldiers can fit in at once.

With the first soldier down, two more approach, stepping over their comrade’s limp body.

I feel the panic return. I’ve seen Artem fight enough times now to know that he would win in a fair fight easily.

But now he is dealing with two trained assassins, both of whom look as tall and as large as him.

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