Page 25 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

"There are cameras," Ryan's voice wavers slightly. "I have police officers. I'll have evidence."

"Do you think that matters to me right now?"

The cops around Ryan shift nervously, clearly caught between their duty and the very real possibility that this situation could escalate far beyond their ability to control it.

One of them speaks up hesitantly. "Mr. Baryshev, we're going to need you to step back…"

"Officer," Anatoly continues conversationally. "I suggest that you escort Mr. Bennet off the premises before he does something stupid."

The officer's mouth opens, then closes. They know who Anatoly is. And they most certainly understand the consequences of moving against him without absolute certainty of success.

Ryan watches this exchange with growing agitation, and then tries to look past Anatoly towards me.

"Amelia," he says. "You can change your name. You can pretend that this…" He glances at Anatoly briefly. "Man has your best interest at heart. But he doesn't. I do. And once you see that, you'll—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence because Anatoly moves with lightning speed, grabbing Ryan by his collar and lifting him above the ground like he weighs nothing.

"Not one more word to her," Anatoly snarls.

"Let go of me!" Ryan struggles against the grip. "Officers, arrest him! He's assaulting me!"

The cameras take in everything, and a small crowd starts to gather to witness the public humiliation that Anatoly is inflicting upon Ryan. Phones start coming out, and murmur whispers in harsh tones throughout the crowd.

Ryan's face flushes red with pain and humiliation as Anatoly continues to keep his suspended in midair. Then, his composure finally cracks completely.

"You fucking whore!" he screams at me, spittle flying from his mouth. "You'd rather be his slut than—"

Whatever he thinks that I would've been if I were with him, I'll never find out. Because that's the exact moment that Anatoly—roaring—throws him towards the glass of the barbershop.

The glass of the barbershop shatters when Ryan is thrown into it.

Time seems to slow down as I watch his body crash through the storefront window. The sound is deafening—a high-pitched explosion of breaking glass that rains down in glittering shards. Ryan's expensive suit offers little protection as he tumbles through, his arms flailing uselessly.

The crowd gasps collectively. A few teenage boys shout excitedly at the sudden escalation. Several officers rush forward into the shop to help Ryan back on his feet.

Blood begins to seep through Ryan's suit where glass has cut him. He looks pathetic now, sprawled among the wreckage, trying to push himself up with trembling arms.

I should feel horrified. I should be rushing to stop this violence. But all I feel is a cold satisfaction watching Ryan bleed. This man who handed me over to his father deserves every cut and every moment of terror he's feeling right now by my husband's hands.

Anatoly remains perfectly still with his back to me to form a barrier between me and Ryan. His voice carries clearly when he speaks again.

"Consider that your one and only warning, Mr. Bennet." Each word deliberate and calm. "And never dare look at my wife again."

Ryan finally stands, glass tinkling from his clothes. Blood trickles down his face from a cut above his eye. His leg trembles, and then he yelps out in pain as he half collapses under his own body weight.

"Fuck you." He spits as a pair of cops help him up. "Fuck you both. Officers, arrest this man! You all saw him assault me just now!"

In contrast, Anatoly stands perfectly still.

The police are shouting now, guns drawn, the situation spiraling out of control.

"Step back! Hands where we can see them!"

Anatoly complies, and then turns to face me. There's no regret in his eyes, only the calm certainty of a man who would do it all again in a heartbeat.

"It's alright, printsessa," he says softly.

My heart hammers against my ribs as he slowly turns back to the police and extends his wrists, holding his arms out calmly in front of him.

"Go ahead," he tells them. "I won't resist."

The officers approach cautiously, one keeping his gun trained on Anatoly while another produces handcuffs. The metal clicks around his wrists, and something inside me breaks open.

"I'm coming with you," I blurt out, stepping forward.

Anatoly shakes his head firmly. "Go to the car. Call Roma. Go home, and wait for me to come back."

"But—"

"I'll be fine, Indigo." His voice is gentle but leaves no room for argument. "Trust me."

With that, the cops lead Anatoly toward a patrol car, his head held high despite the handcuffs. Even now, with cuffs around his hands, he radiates power as surely as the sun radiates heat.

Just before they push him inside, he turns to look at me.

"I'm sorry, printsessa," he calls out, his voice carrying across the street. "I know this isn't what you had in mind for Thanksgiving."

I watch as they close the door, tears burning in my eyes. Sorry? For what? For defending me? For showing Ryan exactly what happens when he crosses a line that he knows exists?

No. Anatoly has nothing to apologize for.