Gilded Cage: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 1) by Nicole Fox (best books for 20 year olds .txt) 📕

The guard hangs up and says something to his colleague. Their voices are gruff, giving their accents a sinister edge.

Then, to my amazement, they leave my room.

I open my eyes slightly and check to make sure I’m alone.

Is this a test?

A moment later, I decide—fuck it, I don’t care. If it’s a test, then I’m failing with flying colors.

I open my eyes all the way and sit up.

Wasting no time, I yank the IV out of the back of my hand. I hiss at the stab of pain and press down the bedsheet to stop the blood from bubbling up through the injection point.

Then I swing my legs off the bed and gingerly put one foot on the ground at a time. I move slowly, making sure I’m steady on my feet before I start walking. I don’t want to faint or lose my balance before I even get out of this room.

Next on the agenda—clothes or shoes, if I can find them. This lilac-green hospital nightie is good for showing the world my ass and not much else besides that.

Scouring the room, I locate a thin cupboard in the corner next to the window. I go straight for it and throw open the doors to find a folded pair of my jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweater.

Obviously, Artem had a few of my things brought here from the apartment.

I discard my hospital gown quickly and pull on the jeans first.

I’ve just put on the t-shirt when I hear footsteps approaching my room. Panicking, I stumble to the window and peer outside.

The window looks out onto a narrow balcony that’s obviously used for maintenance, but if I can get out onto it, I’ll be able to shimmy down to the proper balcony on the lower floor and keep going like that until I’m on the ground.

Of course, my whole plan teeters on whether or not this window is locked.

I’m just about to try the window when the footsteps get louder. I freeze, my eyes turning towards the door as I wait to be discovered.

Oh, God…

And then whoever is outside my room keeps walking right on past it.

Pulling myself together, I remember to breathe as I turn my attention back to the window. I say a silent prayer and push it open.

Relief floods through me when it swings wide without a problem.

Scratch that—it gets to about a thirty-degree angle before it gets stuck.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

I hear more voices congregating outside the room. If I don’t get out now, I can kiss my chances of escape goodbye.

And I have to escape. There is no way I can stay.

Not now, knowing what I know about Artem. About what he’s done.

I have to protect myself.

But more importantly, I have to protect my baby.

Drawing strength from that, I put all my strength against the window and push as hard as I can. The window moves two more inches but I keep pushing anyway.

I need at least another inch or two if I’m going to be able to get out onto the balcony.

The voices get louder, but I drown them out.

“Come on, come on, you fucker…” I growl. “I’ve almost got you…”

The window shoves open several more inches.

Hell yes.

I have to resist the urge to scream out in celebration.

That’ll do the trick.

I slip out of the window and land with a thump onto the tiny little balcony. My heartbeat is so loud I can hear it thundering in my ears as I survey the drop.

The series of balconies that make up the building’s back façade allows me the perfect irregular ladder to climb down.

I take a step forward as the cold metal of the balcony grills prick at my soles, and only then do I realize that I’m barefoot.

There were shoes in the cupboard next to my jeans, but in my panic, I hadn’t put them on.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But there’s no going back now.

I start my descent.

43

Artem

“I’m not fucking leaving her, Cillian,” I growl into the phone.

Cillian just sighs from his end of the call. He’s been doing a lot of that lately.

I remind myself that he’s only trying to help. I can’t afford to be distracted.

Not with a threat this big looming.

But the anger that’s been boiling in my veins since the moment the first shot was fired at my father’s funeral refuses to go away.

It simmers just under the surface. Ready to explode at any moment.

“I understand you’re worried about Esme, brother,” Cillian says. “But this is important, too. I would argue it’s more important.”

I bite back my retort. “Where are you now?” I ask instead.

“The warehouse down Weston,” he replies. “It’s only ten minutes or so from the clinic. It shouldn’t take that long.”

“Fine. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up.

It takes everything I have to resist my urge to turn back into Esme’s room. To stare at her body again, the way I’ve done for hours and hours since we arrived here. Since I found her haunted and slumping into blackout.

Was that a bump in her belly? I couldn’t be sure.

But the doctor said a baby was in there. He has no reason to lie. I have no reason to doubt him.

Which prompts another question: is it mine?

Four months ago, Esme and I had crossed paths in the bathroom of the Siren. There is a fairly good chance the child she’s carrying is mine.

But just because the timing’s right doesn’t mean anything. There could have been other men.

My blood just boils even hotter at that thought. The idea of another man with his hands on my wife makes me unreasonably murderous. I can taste the bitter metal of fury on my tongue.

Why should I care? She lied to me. She’s a liar.

And yet I do care.

It’s the most frustrating fucking merry-go-round of circular thinking I’ve ever experienced.

I can’t keep her.

I can’t let her go.

With another heavy sigh, I turn my back on Esme’s door and stride down the broad well-lit hallway.

Through