Page 191 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Esme stands back and watches closely as I hotwire the car, but she doesn’t say a word when I open the door for her. Her eyes flit to Cillian, who shrugs and smiles. Then she gets into the backseat with a sigh.

The fatigue is evident in the slump of her shoulders and the dark circles around her eyes. I want to check in with her, ask her how she’s doing, how she feels, but the questions sound so stupid even in my head that I stop myself from asking.

Obviously, she’s had better days than this one.

Once we’re in the hatchback, Cillian drives at a normal pace through the heart of L.A. to the very edge of the city.

Soon, the large corporate buildings and fancy apartment complexes give way to smaller, more run-down structures.

I glance back to check on Esme and find that she’s fallen asleep with her head resting against the window. I resist the urge to reach out and touch her.

“She asleep?” Cillian asks, breaking the silence that has plagued us since jumping into the getaway car almost an hour ago.

“She’s fucking exhausted,” I confirm. “And who can blame her? The fucking bastards almost had us.”

“You shouldn’t have been in that building at all,” Cillian says disapprovingly.

“Thanks for the heads up, Mom.”

“You know I’m right.”

I do, but my defensiveness rears up anyway. “Esme was in there. I had to.”

“You could have at least told me what you were doing,” Cillian continues. “We could have come up with a smart plan. Or a plan, period.”

I glare at him before sighing and relaxing. “You saved our lives, so I’m gonna let you get away with that.”

Cillian smirks. His eyes fall to the rearview mirror. “She definitely doesn’t look pregnant,” he says.

I glance back at Esme. Her position looks uncomfortable but she’s so tired I doubt it even matters.

He’s right, though. She looks the same as she did in that bathroom at The Siren.

Or maybe not. Maybe there’s something—a new line in her jaw, a flush to her skin—that signals what’s happening inside of her.

I can’t tell. Can’t decide. I still haven’t figured out what to think about it.

“Where exactly are we heading?” I ask Cillian instead of ruminating more.

“I found this motel at the edge of the city,” he replies. “It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it’s a popular destination for families with kids. I figured it’ll provide you two with some coverage while you take a beat.”

“How much of a beat?”

“A day, tops,” Cillian says. “I wouldn’t hang around longer.”

A day is enough. It will give Esme some time to rest and it will give me some time to figure out my next move.

Cillian turns left at a crossroad, and we drive down about a mile before veering onto a gravel driveway that leads to a monochrome building two stories high.

“Not the Ritz” would be an upgrade from this shithole.

In fact, “rotting cardboard box” would probably be an upgrade from this shithole.

But it’ll do for now.

I get out and survey the place. It’s a smaller motel than most, probably about twenty rooms in total. There’s obviously a pool out back around the building, because I can hear the sounds of shouting and splashing. Definitely sounds like a family with kids.

“I’ll go and get the keys,” Cillian says. He trots off, leaving me with the sleeping Esme.

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