Page 197 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

“Artem… you’re in love with her.”

I bristle at his words, feeling strangely exposed by them. “Fuck off.”

Cillian laughs. “Why do you bother lying to me?” he asks. “I know you too well.”

“I think it’s time for you to go,” I say, but my tone is clearly teasing.

We’re both laughing, but Cillian runs a hand through his hair and straightens up. “I really should get going. We’ve been sitting here for hours.”

We stand up together and quietly make our way through the room to the other side of the motel. Esme’s stirring a little, trying to find a comfortable position.

When Cillian and I step outside the room, I see the white hatchback parked down below, half-shrouded by darkness.

“Cillian…” I say, as he turns to me.

“I know, brother,” he interrupts. “Stay safe. Stay smart.”

I nod. “Contact me when you establish a safehouse. I’ll do the same.”

He offers me his hand and I clasp it hard, pulling him to me for a hug. When we pull back, I feel the seriousness of this parting settle over me. The second time in just a few days we’ve done this, and it hasn’t gotten any easier.

“This is just another fight we’re gonna win,” I tell him. “The stakes may be higher, but the outcome will be the same.”

Cillian nods without a single shred of doubt in his eye. “See you around, brother.”

He stops at the staircase and turns back towards me.

“Oh and Artem?”

“Yeah?”

“Congrats,” he says with his signature carefree smile. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

I smile and watch him walk down the stairs and across the lot to the hatchback. He gets in and, with a wave, drives off into the night.

54

Artem

I suppress the unease I feel after parting ways with Cillian and head back into the room.

Esme is sitting up, looking at me with a half-dazed expression that makes me pause.

“Artem?” She sounds worried.

“You’re okay,” I say, as I walk to her bedside. “You’re safe now.”

She rubs the sleep from her eyes and looks down at the unfamiliar t-shirt she’s wearing. “I’m not wearing any pants.”

“You were covered in blood and sweat,” I tell her. “I cleaned you up as best I could.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh.”

Before I can second-guess the instinct, I place my hand on hers. She glances down for a moment and then lifts her eyes to mine.

“I think I need a shower,” she tells me, her voice still a little hoarse with sleep. “Not that you didn’t do a great job or anything.

“No hard feelings,” I laugh. “There’s a towel in the bathroom and a fresh set of clothes in the bag if you need it.”

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