Page 15 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

The afternoon sun filters through the windows of Svetlana's room, bathing the space in a warm golden light. I'm curled up on the sofa with Amara while Svetlana remains in her hospital bed.

All of us are trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy after everything that's happened. Amara fusses over the content of her application essay under her breath crossing out lines and here and there. Svetlana nods along, not sure how she might be able to help other than offering her presence.

For a little while, the three of us can pretend like we're regular people for a moment. Almost.

"Is an essay really even that important?" Svetlana asks Amara. "I always thought what these elitist colleges care about is how good you can make them look."

"Of course the essay matters," Amara insists, tapping her pen against the notebook. "How else would they know who I am beyond your grades and test scores?"

Svetlana makes a dismissive sound. "Rich kids with mediocre grades and a bag of cash get in because their parents donate buildings.

Poor kids with perfect scores get rejected for not being 'well-rounded' enough.

The system is rigged, Amara Malcolmovna.

And like I said before, you should take advantage of the fact that your brother-in-law can rig it in your favor. "

I can't help but smile at Svetlana using our father's name as Amara's patronymic. It sounds both foreign and familiar, like looking at yourself in a funhouse mirror.

"And like I said before, Sveta," Amara concedes, "I still want to get accepted on my own merits. My sister did it. I can too."

"Your sister is one of the most stubborn people I've ever met. Never wanted to hear my advice even when it was freely offered." Svetlana rolls her eyes. "I really thought you might be different."

"Tough luck," Amara sticks out her tongue. "But tell you what. If I ever need help learning how to shoot someone, I'll come to you."

I gasp. "Amara!"

But Svetlana just laughs. "Deal, little cub. I'll make a killer out of you yet."

A soft knock interrupts our conversation. One of Anatoly's guards stands in the doorway, holding something behind his back.

"Indigo Malcolmovna," he says formally. "Something has arrived for you."

I glance at Svetlana, whose posture immediately stiffens. Nothing should be arriving for me. Nobody outside this house even knows I'm here.

"Did someone deliver it in person?" I ask, already rising from the sofa.

"No. It came by courier. We've checked it for explosives and powders. It's safe to open."

He holds out a cream-colored envelope. My stomach drops when I see the familiar handwriting on the front.

It's addressed to Amelia Taylor.

I take the envelope from him with slightly trembling fingers and turn it over. There's no return address, but I don't need one to know who sent this.

There's only one person in the world who would still write letters to Amelia Tyalor.

Ryan.

I tear open the envelope and find heavy expensive paper. He probably picked it to make him seem important. It's exactly the kind of shit Ryan did when we used to date.

And it seems that nothing has changed. Slowly, I unfold the letter and start reading.

My dearest Amelia,

I've thought about you every day since I saw you at the hospital. You looked so beautiful, and I can't help but be reminded of our time together at Columbia, before all this unpleasantness. Before you made the choices that led you away from me.

I've never stopped loving you, Amelia. What we had was real, and I know deep down you must feel the same. Whatever this Russian criminal has done to you, whatever he's forced you to—

I shove the letter back into the envelope, bile rising in my throat. The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity.

"What is it?" Svetlana asks, watching me carefully from her hospital bed.

I take a deep breath, trying to control the wave of disgust washing over me. "Nothing. Just Ryan being Ryan."

"What does he want?" Amara asks, her voice small. She knows enough about what happened to understand why I might be upset.

"What do you think?" I ask back bitterly. "It's the same shit he said to me two years ago. About how much he loves me. How much he misses me. How everything changed with all the 'unpleasantness'—" I make air quotes with my fingers, "—and how he can't understand why I'd choose Anatoly over him."

"God, fuck that guy." Amara shakes her head. "You want to write him back and tell him to go fuck himself?"

"No," I say. "If I do that, then he wins. He doesn't give a shit about me. He just hates the fact that he doesn't have me. He's looking for a reaction. And I'm not going to give him one."

"Then what are you going to do?" Svetlana asks, leaning forward despite her injuries.

I stand up and walk towards the door.

"I'm going to go find a lighter," I say simply. "And then I'm going to burn it."

I walk down the hallway with Ryan's letter crumpled in my fist, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. I just need to burn this thing, erase this unwanted intrusion from my life.

As I pass Anatoly's study, I notice the door is slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. I push it open without knocking. It's something I never would have done a few months ago, but now feels as natural as breathing.

Anatoly sits behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the tattoos I've traced with my fingertips countless times.

He's on the phone, speaking rapid Russian, but when he sees me, he immediately stops mid-sentence.

Those piercing blue eyes take me in, and I see his expression shift as he registers something in my face.

"I'll call you back," he says into the phone before hanging up.

For a moment, we just look at each other across the room. I'm still getting used to the way he sees me, really sees me. Not as a tool or a means to an end, but as his wife. As the mother of his child.

His gaze drops to the crumpled envelope in my hand, and one eyebrow arches slightly.

"Do you have a lighter?" I ask.

He doesn't ask me why I'm asking about it, just reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a heavy silver lighter. I walk over and take it from him, our fingers brushing in a way that still sends electricity through my skin.

I smooth out the letter on the edge of his desk, just enough so it will burn properly, and then walk to the nearby fireplace.

"What is that?" Anatoly asks as he stands next to me.

"A letter from Ryan Bennet," I say. "Telling me how much he loves me. How much he misses me."

I light the corner of Ryan's letter, and watch the flames crawl across his words. For a moment, it's weirdly satisfying, seeing his manipulative bullshit turn to ash.

Anatoly doesn't say anything. He just watches me and waits for me to keep talking.

The letter curls and blackens in the fireplace. I don't need to read the whole thing to know what the rest of it says. This is Ryan's playbook. I've seen it before.

"He says I must be confused or manipulated... or forced." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "As if he wasn't the one who..."

I stop myself, taking a deep breath. The memories still burn—not with the cleansing fire currently consuming Ryan's letter, but with a sick, oily flame that threatens to choke me.

"You know about the abortion," I turn to face him. "You know how it was forced on me to protect his father."

"Yes," he replies.

"But the part that you don't know." My voice cracks slightly, and I have to swallow hard before continuing. "Is that Ryan suggested that I take up the internship with his father in the first place. Insisted on it, in fact."

I shake my head and let out a mirthless hollow laugh.

"I should've known from the first time he ever brought me to meet his parents.

I should've known when his father kept staring at me across the dinner table that night.

And then the next day, Ryan suggested that it would be a good idea to work as his father's intern that summer.

Said it's a good way to get some practical experience to see how the press looks from the other side. "

Anatoly's hands clench into fists, but he doesn't interrupt.

"I told him I didn't want to do something like that.

Told him that I would much rather get an internship with a proper journalist office instead.

But he talked me into it, saying that one internship with his father, and all sorts of doors will open for me.

Even bought me an outfit for my first day of work. "

The memory is as sharp now as it was the day it happened, and every detail plays back into my consciousness with painful clarity.

"And then," I continue as my anger builds.

"While I was sitting there in the hospital after the doctor told me the pregnancy was terminated, Ryan came with a fucking lawyer to make sure I signed that NDA.

And on his way out, he thanked the doctor.

He fucking thanked him like he'd just gotten his oil changed. Like I wasn't even fucking there."

Tears stream down my face, but I barely notice them. The truth is out after years of being trapped inside me. I've confessed everything and it's too much for one day.

"I had to call an Uber to get home. And he came again three weeks later, after Mom and Dad found out. Not to apologize, but to fucking remind me that if I talk, his family will ruin me."

Anatoly's face has gone completely still, and that kind of stillness usually precedes a terrifying act of violence. But when he speaks, his voice is gentle.

"Come here, printsessa." He opens his arms for me.

I don't realize I'm moving until I'm in his arms, and his warmth surrounds me as he pulls me tight against his chest. His hand strokes my hair while I finally let myself cry. I finally get to mourn that terrified girl who was betrayed by a monster.

"You did nothing wrong," he speaks softly. "Nothing. That weak piece of shit failed you in every way a man can fail a woman who loves."

I stay in his arms as if I can stay there forever.

Through the haze of tears, I can see the expensive paper curling into black ash as flames consume Ryan's worthless words.

I watch it disappear up the chimney—his promises, his assumptions, and his casual denial of everything he helped put me through.

When there's nothing left but ash, I feel something in my soul lift and float away with the smoke.

"He will never hurt you again," he says. "As long as I'm breathing, that man will never get close enough to cause you another moment of pain."

The promise settles something deep in my chest. And it's not because I need protection, but because someone finally cares enough to offer it. I'm worthy something without giving anything in return.

"Fuck Ryan Bennet," I whisper. "And fuck his dead father too."

Anatoly's arm tightens around me and he kisses the top of my head softly. Just like he had after our lovemaking yesterday.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much." I turn in his arms, tilting my face up to look at him. The soft afternoon light catches the blue of his eyes, and make them seem almost luminous. "Thank you."

"For what?" he asks.

"For not making this about you," I reply. "For caring about how I felt."

Something flickers across his expression as if he's surprised by what I am saying.

I continue, "And for listening without judging me. For holding me while I cried over something that happened before we met." I reach up to trace the line of his jaw. "For being the man I needed."

The last words seem to break something loose in Anatoly. His mouth comes down on mine, tentative at first, like he's asking permission. When I press closer, rising on my toes to deepen the kiss, he responds with a growing hunger that makes my knees go weak.

His hands frame my face as he kisses me like he's trying to memorize the taste of my lips, and the feel of my skin under his palms.

His mouth moves against mine with a tenderness that makes my heart ache, like he's worshipping something sacred. I can taste the promise in his kiss, the vow that he'll never let anyone hurt me.

The kiss deepens, into something hungry and desperate.

His hands slide into my hair, holding me to him like he's afraid I might disappear, and I press closer to feel his solid warmth against me.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, the ash from Ryan's letter has blown away, leaving behind nothing but the ever-growing certainty that I truly am Anatoly's wife.