Page 22 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

ONE WEEK LATER

I curl up on the window seat beside Amara, watching her face as she nervously awaits my reaction to her essay.

The afternoon light catches in her dark red hair, making it glow like embers.

I've read through her Columbia application essay twice now, my heart squeezing tight at how beautifully she's captured our struggles over the past few years.

"So... what do you think?" Amara asks, fidgeting with the sleeve of her sweater.

I hand the pages back to her with a gentle smile. "It's beautiful. Really. The prose is excellent."

Her face brightens instantly. "Really? You think it's that good?"

"I do," I say, carefully choosing my words. "But I think you're missing an opportunity here."

"What do you mean?" Her forehead creases with worry.

I shift closer, tucking one leg underneath me. "You've written so much about losing Mom and Dad, and about almost losing me... but this essay is supposed to be about you."

"But it is about me," she protests.

"I don't know if the admissions committee will see it that way." I tap the second page. "Look at this section. You've spent three paragraphs describing how you worried about me, but only two sentences on how you managed to keep your grades up while dealing with everything."

Amara looks down at her essay, considering.

"College admissions officers aren't interested in the lives around you. They want to know about you," I continue. "About your resilience, your determination. They want to know how you overcame these challenges, not just that you faced them."

"So I should talk more about my accomplishments?" she asks uncertainly.

"Exactly. Like how you taught yourself calculus. Or how you organized that food drive at school after Dad died." I squeeze her hand. "You shouldn't be afraid to talk about how you've grown from everything you've been through, even if you don't want to reference the actual events themselves."

Amara nods slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "I've been so focused on what happened to us that I forgot to talk about what I did during it all."

"Exactly." I smile at her, feeling a surge of pride. "Let the world see your strength. And you are strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for."

She takes the pages in her hand. "I can rewrite it tonight. And once that's done, I think that'll be it for this application."

I reach over and smooth a strand of Amara's dark red hair behind her ear.

"You're really close to having a perfect essay," I tell her honestly. "Once you make the changes, there's no way Columbia wouldn't accept you with that kind of personal statement."

Amara's eyes light up with that familiar mix of hope and determination I've always admired. "You really think so?"

"I know so," I say, letting my conviction shine through. "And you'll get in entirely on your own merits. By your own accomplishments."

She tugs at the corner of her paper, a familiar nervous habit. "Just like you did, Miels."

Those simple words hit me with unexpected force. For a moment, I see myself at Amara's age. Determined, driven, and filled with the belief that I could shape my own destiny through hard work and talent alone.

Before everything changed.

"Well," I say softly, though my throat feels tight. "Hopefully not exactly like me."

Amara's face falls as she realizes what she's said. "Oh, Miels, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No, don't apologize." I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently. "You didn't do anything wrong."

I take a deep breath, looking out the window at the perfectly manicured grounds of the mansion. It still feels surreal sometimes, this life I've stumbled into.

"Maybe it's a good thing," I say quietly, "that I had to walk this path first. That I had to see the cruel realities of the world before you did." I turn back to her, managing a small smile. "If nothing else, at least I can help guide you through it."

"It's not fair though. What happened to you." Her voice cracks.

"No, it's not fair," I agree, feeling the familiar heaviness in my chest whenever I think about everything that's happened. "But then again, nothing in this world is fair. Not really."

We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional turning of pages as Amara fidgets with her essay. The quiet between us is comfortable—it always has been. Even when we were little, Amara and I could just exist together without needing to fill the space with words.

Finally, Amara breaks the silence. "I heard from Svetlana about what happened at dinner last week," she says cautiously, watching my face for a reaction.

I stiffen slightly, not expecting this turn in conversation. The confrontation with Valentina is still fresh in my mind. Everything from her venomous words, to the hatred in her eyes, and finally, the stunned disbelief on her face when I pronounced her sentence of exile.

"You're different now," Amara says suddenly, studying my face. "You know that, right?"

"Different how?" I ask, though I already know what she means.

Amara grins. "You're turning into a total bratva queen. A real boss bitch." She nudges my shoulder playfully.

I let out a surprised laugh. "Amara Taylor! Where did you learn to talk like that?"

"I'm seventeen, not seven," she rolls her eyes. "And don't change the subject. You're really coming into your own as Anatoly's wife. Everyone can see it."

"I guess I am," I admit quietly. "But sometimes I miss who I used to be. Part of me would give anything to go back to our old life."

"Even after everything that happened?" Amara asks softly.

"Well, not to that part," I clarify quickly. "But there's a simplicity to it that I miss. Making food on a tiny stove. Walking to the corner store for cheap coffee. Not having to worry that someone might try to kill me because of who I married."

I sigh, staring out the window and realizing I've been considering this more than I've admitted to myself. "And I think I'd like to go back to college. Not necessarily Columbia, but somewhere. I want to finish my degree."

"Really?" Amara perks up.

Her simple question catches me off guard. I open my mouth to say "of course" automatically, but stop myself.

Do I actually want that life back? Or am I just chasing ghosts?

I think about the woman who first walked into Columbia's gates years ago. Bright-eyed Amelia Taylor with her natural red hair and optimistic smile. The girl who believed education was her ticket to changing the world. Who thought hard work would be rewarded with fairness and justice.

That girl is gone.

In her place stands someone who's watched her husband sever a man's hand without flinching. Someone who felt power surge through her veins as she pronounced judgment on her mother-in-law. Someone who enjoyed it.

"I don't know," I admit quietly. "Part of me wonders if I'm just... hanging onto something because I think I should. Because normal people go to college and eat cheap dinners instead of ordering executions and exiles."

And that's the truth, isn't it? I'm not sure I could even sit in a classroom anymore, listening to professors talk about ethics and justice when I know what my version of justice feels like. When I've tasted it.

And that's when it really hits me with startling clarity. This longing for my old life isn't a real desire. It's another form of guilt. Another form of fear.

Both of them fundamentally about embracing who I'm becoming.

Maybe I don't want normal anymore. Maybe what I really want is to stop pretending I'm still that girl who left for Columbia believing the world was fundamentally fair.

But then again…

Maybe this isn't an either-or situation. Maybe I don't have to choose between who I was and who I'm becoming.

I've been acting like there's an Amelia—the college girl with dreams—and then there's Indigo—Anatoly's wife who commands life and death. Like they can't exist together.

But what if they can? What if going back to college isn't about pretending the last two years didn't happen? What if it's about refusing to let those bastards take one more thing from me?

Svetlana's words from my first day here echo in my mind: "The past is carved in stone.

It cannot be changed, only worn away. And even then, the worn marks will remind you of what happened.

When you wish that the past never happened, you breathe power into it.

Only by accepting that it has happened and resolving to never let it drag you back down into its depth, will you ever triumph over it. "

Maybe that's exactly what I need. Maybe this desire for the ordinary is my way to balance everything. To be both Amelia and Indigo.

Both the college girl and the bratva queen.

"Yeah." Slowly, I nod, feeling more certain than before. "I think I do want to go back. That way, it'll feel like all those years meant something. Like I didn't just give up on that part of myself completely."

Amara's eyes light up. "Maybe Anatoly can help with that," she suggests, her voice brightening with excitement. "He's got connections everywhere, right? I bet he could get you into any school you wanted."

I let out a small laugh. "What happened to making it on your own merits? Weren't you just saying how important that was to you?"

Amara rolls her eyes dramatically. "That's different. I haven't gotten into Columbia yet. You already did that once. You've got nothing to prove now, Miels. You already showed the world you could get in based on your brains and hard work."

I shake my head, but I can't help smiling at her logic.

"And besides," she continues, warming to her argument. "What's the point of marrying an all-powerful bratva pakhan if you can't use him to help you feel just a little bit ordinary?"

That catches me off guard. I hadn't thought about it that way before. The irony isn't lost on m: using Anatoly's extraordinary power and influence to help me achieve something as mundane as finishing my degree.

"You know," I say slowly, "you might actually have a point there."

Amara grins triumphantly. "Of course I do. Talk to him about it."

"I don't know if it's that simple, though. Going back to school means being out in public, exposed. After everything with Lola, the Volkovs, and even Ryan..." I trail off. "And then there's the baby. There are people who want to hurt us. Who'd use any opportunity."

"So bring have bodyguards," Amara shrugs like it's the most obvious solution in the world. "Svetlana could go with you."

"Can you imagine Svetlana sitting through a literature lecture?" I ask with a small laugh.

"I think she'd enjoy it more than you think," Amara replies.

I sigh, leaning back against the window. "Maybe. I just... it's hard sometimes imagining have that kind of normal life anymore. Not with everything that's happened."

"And why shouldn't you be able to have a normal kind of life just because you married me?"

I startle at the sound of Anatoly's voice, nearly slipping off the window seat. He's standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the frame, watching us with an unreadable expression. My face flushes hot with embarrassment. How long has he been there? Did he hear everything?

"I—I didn't see you there," I stammer.

Amara glances between us, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "And that's my cue to leave," she says, gathering her essay pages. She stands, pausing to squeeze my shoulder. "Think about what I said, okay?"

As she passes Anatoly, she gives him a small nod which he returns with surprising warmth. Something's changed between them since he rescued her from Grisha and Killian. There's a tentative respect growing there that makes my heart feel full.

After Amara disappears down the hallway, Anatoly steps into the room, crossing to where I sit. He offers his hand to me, palm up—a question, not a demand.

I slip my hand into his, feeling the familiar calluses against my skin. "How much did you hear?" I ask, unable to meet his eyes.

"I heard enough," he says simply. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand. "And I agree with your sister."

I look up at him then, surprised. "You do?"

"Of course I do?" His brow furrows slightly. "In fact, this is exactly why I came looking for you. I want to show you something."

"What is it?" I ask, allowing him to pull me gently to my feet.

"Something ordinary." Anatoly's lips curve into that half-smile that still makes my heart skip. "A surprise."

"Ordinary and a surprise?" I echo, intrigued despite myself. "Since when do you do either?"

"I'm trying something new," he says, his blue eyes warm as they meet mine. "For you."