Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2) by Nicole Fox (e book free reading .txt) 📕

So much goddamn pain, searing through every inch of me.

But I’m not there. Not really.

I’m too lost in this torture. Consumed by it. Torn to pieces by hook after hook after hook of memories I thought were long since gone.

Budimir’s face. Sneering at me. Taunting me.

My father’s grizzled brow. Arched in a disappointed downwards V.

Cillian’s blue eyes. Fading away into the darkness. That ever-present glow extinguished.

Last of all, there’s Esme. That molten gold spark in her irises that only flashes when she’s fiery with emotion. The tumble of her dark hair. Her scent, her skin, her laughter, her moan…

I force my eyes open.

The overhead light stabs in like an ice pick, but I refuse to close them again.

I’ve had enough of the darkness. It’s my turn to fight back.

There’s a burning pain in my side, but I ignore it and sit up slowly. When I manage to get mostly upright, I take stock of my surroundings.

I’m lying on a dining room table in a house that’s been decorated with a few too many floral patterns. Pinks and blues and greens in various pastel shades.

There’s a grumpy-looking cat staring at me from a chair in the corner of the room. But no people. No Esme, no Budimir. Just me.

I’m not waiting around to see who this house belongs to, or figure out how I got here. If Budimir’s behind this—more of his fucked-up torture—then I want to escape while the route out is unguarded.

I look to my side and notice that the table faces a set of sliding doors that open out into a pristine garden. Looks as good as any other direction.

I inch off the table. The moment I land on my feet, pain rips through my body like an earthquake.

I almost collapse. I have to grip the edge of the table to stop from crumpling down in a heap. It takes a long minute of breathing and steeling myself against the pain yet to come.

But when I’m good enough to move, I wince and start to limp towards the sliding doors.

Where is Esme?

Where is Cillian?

Are they…?

I can’t bring myself to say it. Can’t even think it, actually. The thought is too much.

“You’re up.”

I whip around—hissing in pain when I realize what a mistake that sudden motion was—and find myself faced with a tall, willowy woman in a long grey kaftan. She has a mess of curly hair that frames her thin face.

And she’s looking at me as though she knows exactly who I am.

“Who are you?” I growl.

“Aracelia,” she replies coolly. “My name is Aracelia. And you’re Artem. Esme told me.”

I flinch at the sound of her name, but I can’t see any sign that Esme might be in this house.

“Where is she?” I ask. I can’t figure out why this woman’s name feels familiar to me.

“How about I check your wounds first?” she suggests. “Would you mind sitting down for me?”

“Yes, I would mind,” I seethe. I’m about to totter over if I’m not careful, but I refuse to show weakness. I ball my hands into fists and focus on staying upright.

“There’s no need to be churlish,” she says with a mild sigh. “I am the one who saved your life. Well, Esme and I.”

She moves towards me, but I growl at her and she freezes. Just then, I pick up a bitter, rancid smell that fills my nostrils and threatens to make me retch.

“What the fuck is that smell?” I demand.

“My poultice,” Aracelia explains. She extends a long finger towards the mass of bandages covering my abdomen. “It’s meant to help you heal.”

“Heal?” I repeat. “It fucking reeks.”

God, everything hurts so badly. I can barely think straight.

She scrunches her face up and I can see that I’ve offended her.

“Where are my clothes?” I ask, realizing suddenly that I’m butt-naked in the middle of what I assume is this woman’s living room.

“On the clothesline. I had to wash them because they were covered in blood. If you’d like, I can get them.”

She disappears into a door around the corner before I answer.

I turn on the spot, trying to figure out why this place strikes a familiar cord with me. Flowers in vases and jars and perched on windowsills, incense burning in every nook and cranny, a small table with Tarot cards spread out across the top…

And then it hits me.

When Aracelia reappears, I limp back around to face her once more.

“You’re the woman who gave Esme a reading,” I say. It sounds like an accusation.

“I did,” Aracelia agrees. “I also dabble in midwifery and natural cures.”

I glance down at the green goo that seems to be oozing out from under my bandages. “I need to get this shit off me.”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t. It needs time to do its’ job. And you need to rest.”

“I can’t fucking rest,” I bite back. “I need to get Esme and—”

“Esme is gone.”

I freeze. My eyes fly to her face, searching for signs that she might be lying. She stares back at me, unblinking.

“What did you say?” I grit.

“She left a week ago,” Aracelia replies. “She took the car and drove off.”

She didn’t say it, but I can hear the underlying message nonetheless: She’s not coming back, either.

She left me here. She ran.

For good.

I snatch my clothes from her hands and start getting dressed. I can feel her watching me, judging me, probably glad that Esme left me as unceremoniously as she has. I don’t stop until I’m fully dressed. My clothes feel as if they don’t belong to me, like I’ve donned a second skin that’s not my own.

Everything feels strange, wrong. Like my world has been shifted off its axis.

I straighten up and look at the woman. Aracelia. Even when I say her name in my head, it comes out in a snarl. Something about her just pisses me the fuck off.

Did she tell Esme to run?

I know that this woman has nothing to do with the weight on my chest. That she’s not responsible for my pain.