Page 50 of Gilded Tears (Kovalyov Bratva 2)
I get out of the car and head straight to the grocery store. I’m running low on supplies and I need to replenish.
I hunt regularly, so I’m good with food.
But alcohol is something I can’t forage for in the forests around the cabin.
And God fucking knows I need that. It’s the only thing that gets me through the nights.
I can feel eyes lock on me as I stride around the grocery store, throwing things into my cart. Anyone in my path clears away instantly, before they even meet my gaze.
I like it this way.
I’m standing in front of the liquor section when I feel someone walk up to me. My body clenches in response to the unwelcome attention.
People have started calling me El Ruso Loco. The Crazy Russian.
I like that, too.
But apparently, word hasn’t gotten to quite everyone just yet. Either that or there are still people in this town who are fucking clueless.
“Hello, Artem.”
I smell her before I look up at her. That thick, floral scent laces the air around her like an aura.
Aracelia.
I groan inwardly, but I keep my eyes dark and my expression impassive as I drop a bottle of whiskey into my cart without acknowledging her.
“You’re not planning on saying hello?” Aracelia asks.
“Hadn’t planned on it, no.”
“Having a party tonight?” she asks with interest.
I pivot in place, turning the full force of my black eyes on her. “You’re in my way.”
“I think you’re in your own way.”
I roll my eyes. “Where’d that come from?” I demand. “Your self-help book of the month?”
“Just a personal observation,” she replies with a shrug.
The woman has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. She’s annoying enough to kill, but it really wouldn’t be worth the effort. I’d have to bury her body afterwards and it would just mess with my evening of drinking.
A man can fantasize, though.
“How’ve you been?” she persists.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I groan. “You’re making small talk?”
“You could use a friendly conversation—”
“We are not fucking friends,” I snarl.
I lean in so that my nose is inches away from hers. She stares back at me without any reaction. She doesn’t even take a step back.
She shrugs. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
“It’s my fucking opinion.”
