Page 27 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

We settle into our chairs as the final minutes of the day rapidly approaches. Our knees touch beneath the table as we begin filling our plates.

The small roasted chicken gleams under the dining room lights, and I spoon some of the mashed potato onto both our plates.

I want to ask him what he's planning to do about Ryan. Is he going to retaliate after tonight? And what will it mean for all of us now that Ryan has all but confirmed that he's working with the Volkovs?

But I swallow the questions down. Whatever questions about the future of the bratva can wait.

What matters now is that Anatoly is home.

That he and Marcus are both safe.

That for once, nobody died because of me.

And for tonight, that's enough.

Anatoly takes a bite of the mashed potatoes.

"This is good," he says, nodding with appreciation as he takes another bite. "Really good."

"Thanks," I say, pushing the food around my plate.

It's funny, I can feel the ever-present nausea of pregnancy at the back of my throat demanding that I sate it with some food. But somehow, I'm not ready to start eating.

"It's my mom's recipe. I've tried to make it so many times..." I trail off for a moment. "But it never quite tastes right. I haven't actually tried this one just yet."

Anatoly scoops up another spoonful, this time holding it out to me. "Taste it," he says.

I lean forward, letting him feed me like he did that night at the dinner table all those weeks ago after he told me that we were getting married.

But the circumstances are different now. Back then, that was an act of power—a way for him to remind me of the absolute control he had over everything, me included. But tonight, there's no need for him to exert his control over me.

Tonight, this is an act of tenderness.

Like he's showing just how much he cares for and about me.

Unexpected flavors bloom across my tongue, and I'm shocked by the proper blend of taste and texture.

It tastes just like I remember. And when I close my eyes to savor the taste, I can practically hear my mom's voice whispering at my ear.

Unbidden tears spring to my eyes.

"It tastes right," I whisper. "It actually tastes like hers."

Something about this small victory of recreating my mother's recipe on this strange, broken Thanksgiving feels significant.

"Maybe the secret ingredient is that you know you're about to become a mom yourself." Anatoly sets down his spoon and reaches for my hand. "Maybe that's why it tastes the way that it should right now."

I can't help but laugh. "Being a mom doesn't automatically make someone a good cook. I've known plenty of mothers who couldn't boil water without burning it."

"That's not what I meant," he says, shaking his head.

His expression turns thoughtful. "Being a good mother means you're cooking not by some rules, but by feel.

To make changes on the fly. To add a pinch of extra salt.

A spoonful more butter than the recipe calls for.

All because you're thinking about the people you're cooking for. That's what makes the difference."

"I've been cooking for Amara for a while now and that hasn't happened."

"That's different," he says. "When you were cooking for your sister, you were surviving. Putting food on the table just so that you wouldn't go hungry for the night. You didn't have a chance breathe. To stop."

He scoops another spoonful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.

"To feel."

The sentiment is so unexpectedly sweet coming from him that I don't know how to respond. God, it's crazy just how paradoxical this man can be. On one hand, he's fully capable of murdering people with his bare hands, and ordering death without hesitation.

And on the other hand. Here he is, feeding me tender spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and talking about love being the secret ingredient that I've been looking for this whole time.

He pushes his chair back slightly and opens his arm.

"Come here," he says softly.

I hesitate for just a moment before standing up and settling onto his thighs. He presses a gentle kiss against my shoulder and shifts on the chair to accommodate my body on his.

A shot of warmth pours through my veins and chases away the chill that's kept a strong grip around my throat all night while I waited for him to return. Tension ebbs from my shoulders, and I sigh softly, realizing that I've been holding onto this single final breath this entire time.

His free arm rises, and he plays with an errand strand of hair hanging by my ear.

"This is what matters," he murmurs against my hair. "This right here."

He picks up a forkful of chicken and holds it to my lips. I take it, savoring both the taste and the intimacy of being fed by him.

"Love changes everything," he continues in hushed tones between bites. "The food. This house." He pauses, pressing a kiss to my temple. "The people who live inside of it."

I lean back against his chest, feeling truly safe for the first time since I saw him being handcuffed. "You really believe that?"

"I do now," he answers, feeding me another bite. "I never did before you."

I think back to those first moments we shared. The terror I felt when he walked into the barbershop. How even his voice was when he told me he came to kill me, only to shield me with his own body when bullets shattered the windows.

Who would have thought we'd end up here?

It's almost impossible to imagine the Anatoly I met that day in the barbershop holding a woman in his lap like this, tenderly feeding her one bite after another.

It's impossible to imagine that Anatoly doing anything other than using an opportunity to assert his power rather than doing something because he cares about someone.

Yet here we are.

His hand feels warm against my skin as he continues to offer me food. With each bite, my appetite grows stronger, the nausea at the back of my throat begins fading into the background. My baby—our baby—seems content now, like they know their father has come home.

And as long as their father is here with us, nothing will ever be able to hurt us.

When Anatoly scoops the final spoonful of mashed potatoes and guides it to my mouth, I turn to look at him fully. His blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else disappears to leave us in this tiny stolen moment of peace.

He watches as I swallow the last bite, then cups my cheek with his palm, thumbing away a smear of mashed potatoes from my lips.

There's a newfound intensity in his eyes that sets my blood burning and my heart drumming in my ear.

His hand moves from my cheek to cup the back of my neck, thumb tracing small circles to send shivers down my spine. I know he's feeling the same desire that's coursing through me.

But there's something else in his gaze too—something tender and questioning—that makes me pause.

"Have you thought about names yet?" Anatoly asks, his voice low and serious. "For our baby?"

The question breaks through the haze of desire for just a moment.

"No," I admit, shaking my head slightly. "I haven't been able to. Have you?"

"Not a fucking clue," he says with a small laugh, his chest rumbling against my back.

I tilt my head, curious now. "Would you want a Russian name? Something from your family?"

Anatoly's expression shifts slightly, and I feel my heart sink a little. Of course there would be expectations. Protocol. Rules about what a Baryshev child should be named.

"Protocol would dictate a Russian name," he says slowly, confirming my fears.

But then his eyes soften, and he cups my face between both hands.

"Fuck protocol," he says firmly. "I want to know what you think."

I feel warmth spreading through me at his words, and I pause to let my mind wander as I consider a choice. But I keep coming up empty.

"You're kind of putting me on the spot right now," I say. "Hard to think of a choice off the top of my head."

"Just think of something," he replies. "Anything, really. First thing that comes to mind. It'll be there for a reason."

"Well," I start. "My favorite book in college was Oliver Twist."

A smile tugs his lips up. "Oliver Twist? Really?"

"What's wrong with that?" I ask, feeling slightly defensive.

"Nothing," he says, squeezing my hand. "I just find it funny that the first thing that comes to mind is a book about an orphan boy who gets caught up with criminals."

"The story really spoke to me," I explain. "Even before I became an orphan."

"And before you married a criminal?" he asks gently.

I can't help but laugh. "Yes, even before I married a criminal."

"Oliver is a good name." His expression softens as he considers it. "And if we have a girl, Olivia is good choice too."

"It is," I agree, covering his hand with mine. "I like both of those."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment before I continue, "You know, in the end of the story, Oliver gets adopted. He finds a real home."

I notice Anatoly's brow furrow slightly, his expression turning pensive.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Marcus told me something." He looks at me intensely. "Once at the hospital and again tonight. That what I should be doing is to make you happy and give you the life you deserve. And he's right."

He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts before resuming. "Making you happy is more than giving you material things or keeping you safe, even though those are important. Making you happy is about being there for you and with you. Forever."

He traces his fingers along my jaw. "Since I've found out about this pregnancy, I've been thinking about this child as an heir. As the next generation of the bratva."

He shakes his head.

"I've been thinking like a pakhan instead of thinking like a father." His voice drops lower. "What if our child could just be... our child? Not an heir or a pawn in some game. Just ours to love and protect and raise together. And what if…"

My heart quickens as I start to understand what he's suggesting.