Page 211 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Once I’ve paid for the clothes, Esme and I head back to the car. We’ve lingered too long, but I just didn’t have the heart to ruin Esme’s fun. She makes a beeline towards the black sedan, but I take her hand and pull her in the opposite direction.

“Artem?” she asks in confusion. I still feel a strange little twinge every time she says my name in that soft accent of hers. “Where are we going? The car’s that way.”

“I think it’s time for a chance,” I tell her. “Something a little more spacious this time.”

We walk down two rows of vehicles before I find one that meets my specifications.

It’s a grey Honda that looks like it’s had a few years of good use. An unassuming vehicle, the kind you see families driving around in all the time.

I glance around calmly and pull Esme towards it.

“We’re stealinganothervehicle?” she asks, with worry.

“It’s a safety precaution, Esme,” I tell her. “We can’t afford to let our guard down.”

She stands at the trunk of the car and waits anxiously until I’ve hotwired the engine. She needs to work on her “nothing to see here” face, but we’ll have to make time for that later.

When the engine thrums to life, she gets in without a word.

There’s a couple of pictures stashed into the visor over my seat. I pull them out surreptitiously and hide them before Esme can see.

If she can match faces to the car we’ve just stolen, it’ll be another thing for her to stew guiltily over.

She has the most active conscience of anyone I’ve ever known. Most people who grow up the way we did have long since grown numb to causing pain to strangers.

As odd as it is, I find it refreshing. A reminder of a different kind of life. A different kind of world.

Like she’s taking my hand and whispering,It doesn’t always have to be this way.

* * *

I drive out of the shopping complex quickly. Within minutes, we’re back on byroads and weaving little streets just so that I can avoid all the main routes to Joshua Tree.

About forty minutes in, Esme falls asleep with her head resting against her window and one hand carelessly thrown over her stomach.

I’m not sure even she realizes just how often she touches her belly. Has she started recently or had she always done it?

I rake over my memories with her. But for the life of me, I can’t remember.

Another hour on the road and it starts to get dark. I turn my headlights on and keep to the obscure little road we’re on.

According to the GPS, we should be arriving in Joshua Tree in fifteen minutes.

I glance at Esme, who’s started squirming a little in her seat. I can see her eyes moving furiously underneath her closed eyelids, a sure sign that she’s dreaming.

When she starts to mumble and her movements become more erratic, more panicked, I pull over and park in a little patch of sand off the road.

I graze her cheek with my fingers but she jerks away from my touch, a little gasp emitting from her slightly parted lips.

“Esme,” I whisper.

She groans. Her hair splays across her face as she turns. I try and brush it back, but she moves again as her breathing gets heavier and heavier.

“Esme,” I say, a little louder.

She jerks forward, her eyes widening as she pulls herself from the throes of the nightmare.

As the fog clears, she blinks at me a few times, trying to bat away the disorientation.

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