Page 1 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

Grisha drags me through the busy station, fingers digging into my arm so hard that I fear he’ll leave bruises. His other hand hangs casually by a thumb in his pocket, but I know exactly what's in there. There’s the unmistakable outline of a gun visible against the fabric.

"Don't try anything stupid," he mutters, his breath hot against my ear. "I'd hate to make a mess so early in the morning."

People rush past us, eyes averted, no one noticing or caring about the man practically dragging me toward the ticket counter. I can scream. I can try to fight.

But then what would happen to Amara still being held at gunpoint by that cop? To Svetlana bleeding out on the sidewalk?

"Two tickets," Grisha tells the attendant. "One way to Albany."

Albany. Far enough to get me out of the city, but close enough that he can escort me personally.

I stand there, numb, as he pays in cash.

"Now we wait," he says, steering me toward a bench. "Train leaves in twenty minutes."

We sit side by side, looking like any other traveling couple. His arm slides around my shoulders, a mockery of affection that makes my skin crawl.

"You know," he says conversationally, "I can see why Anatoly would break his betrothal to my sister for you."

I stare straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

"You must be one hell of a good fuck, Amelia," Grisha continues, his hand sliding down to rest on my thigh. "To make a man like Anatoly forget his duty."

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit as his fingers trace small circles on my leg.

"Maybe I'll find out for myself before the day's out," he whispers. "Give you a nice send-off memory before you go."

The station announcement system crackles to life, announcing that our train is boarding early.

“Up.” Grisha stands, pulling me with him. "Let's go."

The station loudspeaker crackles again with boarding instructions as Grisha's grip tightens around my arm and he shoves me towards the platform. "Move."

My feet feel like they're made of lead as we approach the train. Every step takes me farther from Anatoly, farther from any chance of safety.

We climb the steps into the train car. It's about half-full, business people with coffee cups and students with backpacks. Normal people going about normal lives. And here I am, being kidnapped in plain sight.

The conductor stands at the front of the car, checking tickets as passengers board. My heart beats faster. This is my chance. My only chance. If I can just signal him somehow...

"Tickets, please," the conductor says as we approach, his voice bored and mechanical.

I raise my eyes to his, widening them slightly, trying desperately to communicate without words. Help me. Please see that something's wrong. I open my mouth slightly, hoping he notices the fear written across my face.

Grisha hands him our tickets with a pleasant smile while his other hand digs painfully into my back where no one can see.

"Thank you," the conductor says, barely glancing at me as he punches our tickets and hands them back. "Enjoy your trip to Albany."

And then he's gone, moving to the next passengers behind us.

My heart plummets to my stomach. That was my one shot at being noticed, at someone realizing something was wrong. And it’s gone.

Grisha guides me to a pair of empty seats toward the back of the car, shoving me into the window seat so I'm trapped between him and the glass.

"Good girl," he whispers, patting my knee. "This will be so much easier if you behave."

The train jolts suddenly, wheels screeching against metal as we begin to move. Away from the city. Away from Anatoly. Away from everything.

Grisha's smile widens, his teeth gleaming like a wolf's. "Now we can really get acquainted," he says, his hand creeping up my thigh.

Grisha's hand inches higher on my thigh, and suddenly my stomach lurches violently. Not from fear but the actual nausea of the morning sickness I've been battling for days.

I feel the acid rising in my throat as his fingers continue their unwelcome journey upward. The combination of his touch, the train's motion, and my pregnancy hits me all at once. I can't hold it back.

A small amount of vomit pushes up my throat and onto my lips. I don't try to stop it this time. Instead, I let a few drops spill over, making a small gagging sound.

Grisha jerks back immediately, his face contorting in disgust. "What the fuck?"

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, genuine tears springing to my eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry," I whisper, lowering my gaze. "I don't feel well. Please... can I just wash up first?"

His eyes narrow suspiciously, traveling from my pale face to the small flecks of vomit on my lips. He hesitates, clearly disgusted but also suspicious of my intentions.

"Please," I add in my smallest voice. "I just need to rinse my mouth. I'll be quick."

After a moment, Grisha stands, his expression hardening with annoyance. "I'm coming with you."

He grabs my arm again, pulling me up roughly from the seat. Several passengers glance our way, but quickly look away when they catch Grisha's threatening glare.

"Don't try anything stupid," he mutters in my ear as we make our way forward towards the narrow aisle toward the bathroom at the end of the car. "Remember your sister."

I nod weakly, feeling another wave of nausea that isn't entirely fake this time. The swaying of the train car makes my stomach churn as Grisha propels me forward, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh.

As we near the bathroom at the head of the train car, my mind races. The gun in his pocket.

The train suddenly lurches around a curve, making me stumble. I don't fight the motion as I let it throw me off balance, stopping abruptly. Grisha, not expecting this, slams into my back.

In that split second of contact, I gather every ounce of strength I have and throw my head backward as hard as I can.

My skull connects with his nose with a sickening crunch. Pain explodes across the back of my head, but Grisha's howl tells me I've done worse damage to him. His grip on my arm loosens as he staggers backward.

"You fucking bitch!" he roars, clutching his face.

I don't waste the moment. I lunge for the door connecting to the next car, and yank it open with trembling hands. Cool air rushes past me as I stumble through the passage between cars.

My legs feel like rubber beneath me, but I force them to move. I crash through the door into the next car, nearly falling into a startled passenger. The conductor is halfway down the aisle, checking tickets.

"Help!" I gasp, moving toward him. "Please, he has a—"

Behind me, the door flies open. Grisha stands there in the space between the cars, blood streaming from his nose, his eyes wild with rage. His hand is in his pocket.

"DIE!" he shouts.

People around me shrink into their seats. The conductor looks up, confusion written across his face.

Then I see Grisha pulling the gun from his pocket.

The sound of the gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. Then another. And another. Someone screams. I feel the bullet's heat as it whizzes past my ear.

Grisha keeps firing wildly, his face twisting in rage. People scream and duck as bullets tear through the train car. A woman across the aisle jerks backward, crimson blooming across her blouse. An elderly man slumps forward, his newspaper fluttering to the floor.

"No!" I scream, diving between seats.

The conductor who moments ago was my only hope staggers. There’s a confused expression on his face before he crumples to the ground, dead eyes staring at nothing.

My stomach heaves. Those people... they're dying because of me. Because I ran.

Bullets ping off metal and shatter windows. Glass rains down as passengers scramble over each other, desperate to escape. A child wails somewhere behind me.

That's when I see the red emergency stop button on the wall near the conductor's body.

I lunge for it, my fingers shaking as another bullet whizzes past my shoulder. I slam my palm against it with everything I have.

The brakes engage with a deafening screech. The train shudders violently, throwing everyone forward. I grab a seat back to keep from flying down the aisle.

Grisha, still standing, isn't so lucky. The sudden deceleration launches him off his feet. He flies forward, arms windmilling uselessly. His body crashes into seats, passengers, and anything in his path.

The gun spins from his hand, skittering across the floor until it stops just feet away from me.

The train grinds to a complete halt with one final, violent jerk.

I don't hesitate. I scramble across the floor, my fingers closing around the cold metal of the gun. Its weight is unfamiliar but somehow steadying in my hand.

I turn and point it at Grisha, who's struggling to get up from where he landed. Blood streams from his nose and a fresh gash on his forehead.

When he sees me, his eyes widen, then narrow. A bloody smile splits his face.

"You don't have the balls, little whore," he sneers, dragging himself upright. "So put that down before you hurt yourself."

He takes a step toward me. Then another.

"Stay back," I say.

"Fuck you." He lunges.

I pull the trigger.

The gun kicks in my hand. Grisha howls, collapsing to the floor, clutching his leg where my bullet tore through it.

I pull the trigger again, aiming at his chest this time.

Click.

Nothing happens.

My blood turns to ice as Grisha's eyes widen, his expression shifting from pain to savage glee.

"Looks like you're out of luck, little whore," he growls, already pushing himself up on unsteady feet while blood pours from his leg wound.

I don't wait to see what happens next. I turn and sprint down the aisle, leaping over fallen luggage and pushing past panicked passengers. The empty gun is still clutched in my hand, useless but maybe just threatening enough to keep others away.

Behind me, I hear Grisha's curses and the heavy thud of his limping pursuit. I reach the door at the end of the car, and pull it open with trembling hands. Cold air hits my face as I stumble onto the small platform between cars.

We've barely just entered the Bronx.

I jump down onto the gravel beside the tracks, my ankles screaming in protest as I land. But I don't stop. I can't.

My legs pump beneath me as I scramble up the embankment and onto the street.

It's the same neighborhood I've walked through a hundred times. I know these buildings, these corners, and these alleys so well that I can navigate them blind if I have to.

Behind me, someone shouts. Maybe Grisha. Maybe someone else. I don't look back.

I run past a bodega where I used to buy coffee, past the laundromat where Amara and I would spend Sunday afternoons reading while our clothes tumbled dry. My lungs burn as I run, but I don’t dare stop.

The baby, I think, please be okay.

I take a sharp left, then right, moving on instinct through streets I know better than my own face in the mirror.

Finally, I see it. The barbershop. The same place where all this started. Where I first met Anatoly.

My feet slow as I approach, the gun heavy and useless in my sweaty hand. Through the window, I can see the familiar vinyl floors and the mismatched stations.

Hell, I can practically smell the lingering chemical scent of hair products inside.

I finally risk a glance behind me and see... nothing. No sign of Grisha's bulky frame or his limping pursuit. The street stretches empty behind me, just ordinary people going about their day, completely unaware of the nightmare I'm living.

For a moment, I lean against the brick wall, catching my breath. We made it. For now.

I push open the door to the barbershop, the familiar bell jingling overhead. The scent of aftershave and hair products hits me, so achingly normal it almost makes me cry.

Marcus looks up from where he's sweeping hair clippings, his razor-lined comb pausing mid-air. His eyes widen in disbelief.

"Indie? Where the hell have you been?" His deep voice booms across the small shop. "Two months without a word! I thought you were dead or something!"

The few customers waiting turn to stare. I can only imagine what I look like—disheveled, wild-eyed, and trembling.

With a gun in my hand.

"Marcus," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Help."

He sets down his comb and approaches me slowly, like I'm a frightened animal that might bolt. His expression shifts from annoyed to concerned as he takes in my appearance.

"Indie..." he says, his gruff exterior softening. "You're bleeding."

I follow his gaze downward and feel my heart stop. A small pool of red is forming on the floor by my right side, soaking through my jeans. When did this happen? Did a bullet graze me after all?

The adrenaline that's been keeping me upright suddenly drains from my body. The gun I'd forgotten I was still holding clatters to the floor.

"Please," I whisper, the room beginning to spin around me. "Please, not my…"

My knees buckle beneath me. Marcus lunges forward, catching me before I hit the ground.

"Indie!" he shouts, his voice sounding farther and farther away.

Darkness closes in around the edges of my vision, but all I can think about is the tiny life inside me. Anatoly's child. My child.

My baby!