Page 3 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

The antiseptic smell hits me first. Sharp. Clinical. More familiar than I'd like.

My eyelids feel impossibly heavy as I struggle to open them, like they're weighted down with sand. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, making me wince. Hospital. I'm in a hospital.

Panic surges through me as memories come rushing back. Grisha's hands on my thigh. The gunshots on the train. Blood pooling at my feet in the barbershop.

My eyes fly open.

"Easy there," comes a familiar voice. "Don't try to move too much."

As my vision clears, Marcus's worried face comes into focus. Deep lines crease his forehead as he leans forward in the plastic chair beside my bed. His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn't slept.

"Where," I croak, my throat raw. "Where am I?"

Marcus's expression softens slightly. "St. Barnabas." He pauses, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Wasn't a whole lot of other places to take you. You were bleeding so much when I brought you in."

Panic tears through me at Marcus mentioning my blood loss. My baby... is my baby okay? The question burns on my tongue, desperate to escape.

But I swallow it back.

The fewer people who know about the baby, the better. I've already put too many people in danger. I've hurt enough people already. Svetlana… those passengers on the train.

All that blood on my hands because I thought I could outrun my past, because I thought I could have something I never deserved.

I glance around the hospital room, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. Anyone could walk through that door. A nurse. A doctor. Or someone working for Lola.

"I need to leave," I say, trying to push myself up. The room spins slightly, and Marcus gently pushes me back down.

"Not like that, you ain't," he says firmly. "Wherever you think you need to go, that can wait until you're stable."

Except that's not true, is it?

Marcus doesn't understand. The trouble I'm in doesn't wait. It hunts. It follows. And it will find me here, in this hospital bed, where I'm weak and vulnerable and useless.

And it will take everything from me. Again.

"How long have I been here?" I ask instead, trying to push myself up.

"Almost twelve hours." Marcus gently places a hand on my shoulder. "You passed out a couple of seconds after you came in. Scared the crap out of everyone."

I notice the hospital bracelet around my wrist. It reads "Jane Doe."

"I didn't tell them your name," Marcus explains, following my gaze. "Figured there might be a reason you showed up looking like you'd been through hell with a gun in your hand."

I close my eyes briefly, grateful for his discretion. "Thank you."

"Where'd you go, Indie?" His voice is gentle but firm. "You disappeared on me. Didn't even leave a note. Just a floor full of broken glass."

I look down at my hands, shame washing over me. Marcus has always been good to me, better than I deserve.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words feeling wholly inadequate. "For disappearing like that. For the damage to the barbershop. For everything."

Marcus waves his hand dismissively. "Girl, please. I've been around long enough to know when someone's running from something bigger than themselves." His eyes crinkle at the corners, but the concern doesn't leave them. "That glass? Replaceable. You? Not so much."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Your sister came by, you know. Few days after you vanished."

My heart clenches. "I know"

"She's a good kid. Worried sick about you. Asking all kinds of questions I couldn't answer." His voice drops lower. "And damn it, Indie, I wanted to answer them. It got so bad that I was afraid that maybe you were dead somewhere. That whoever shot up my shop that day had come to finish the job."

You have no idea just how right you are.

I close my eyes, guilt crushing my chest. Everyone I care about, I hurt. It's like I'm cursed or something.

"I'm really sorry, Marcus. I never meant to—"

"Hey." His voice is firm but gentle. "I'm not looking for apologies. Just glad you're still breathing."

The simple kindness in his words nearly breaks me.

In this sterile hospital room, with monitors beeping and antiseptic burning my nostrils, I'm suddenly aware of how few people in my life have ever genuinely cared what happened to me.

Not because of what I could do for them.

Not because of what I represented. Just.. . me.

I swallow hard past the lump in my throat. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you where I've been."

Marcus's laugh is low and rumbling. "I've seen some shit in my time."

I meet his gaze, seeing nothing but sincerity there. But I can't drag him further into this mess. I've already put too many people in danger.

"No," I say softly. "I really don't think you would."

"Try me."

Just then, a doctor in steps in. Her tired eyes briefly scan the chart in her hands before looking up at me with a practiced smile.

"Good evening, Ms. Doe. I'm Dr. Jocelyn Espina. How are you feeling right now?"

The relief that overcomes me is immediate.

I've never been so grateful for an interruption in my life.

No way I can explain to Marcus that I married the Russian mob boss who came to kill me, watched him murder the cops who killed my parents, and oh yeah, I'm carrying his baby after I just got away from someone who want us both dead.

I glance between Marcus and the doctor, unsure what to say or how much I can reveal. My fingers fidget with the thin hospital blanket.

Marcus seems to read my hesitation. He rises from his chair, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'll give you some privacy," he says, his voice gruff but kind. "You need to talk to your doctor without an old man hanging around." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "I'll be right outside. You holler if you need anything, you hear me?"

I nod, grateful for his understanding.

"Thank you, Marcus. For everything."

He waves away my thanks and steps out, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.

The moment we're alone, I turn to Dr. Espina with desperate eyes. The question I've been terrified to ask since I woke up bursts from my lips.

"Is my baby alright?" My voice cracks. "Please tell me my baby's okay."

Dr. Espina moves closer, pulling up a rolling stool to sit near my bed. She sets down her clipboard and looks at me with gentle eyes.

"Ms. Doe... we were primarily focused on stabilizing you when you arrived.

You lost quite a bit of blood, and that was our immediate concern.

" She pauses, choosing her words carefully.

"We weren't aware of your pregnancy, and so we haven't done a full examination for it.

And until we do, I can't give you a definitive status about your baby right now. "

My heart sinks. The weight of not knowing feels crushing, like someone's stacked bricks on my chest. I blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears that are already spilling down my cheeks.

"So... you don't know if my baby is okay?" My voice sounds small, even to me.

Dr. Espina reaches out and places a reassuring hand on my arm.

"I can tell you that while you did lose blood, your abdominal area is uninjured.

There was no direct trauma to in your lower abdominal region, which is typically good news for the baby.

We can prep you for an ultrasound so that we can be certain. "

I nod, clinging to that small bit of hope. "I'd like that."

She glances toward the door. "Is he the father?"

The question catches me off guard and a small laugh escapes my lips—the first time I've felt like laughing since discovering my pregnancy. It feels strange but good. Almost normal.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "He's a friend. A good one."

"And do you have any means of contacting the father?" Dr. Espina asks.

The question brings reality crashing back. "No," I whisper. "I don't."

"Is there anyone else we could contact for you? Family? Friends?"

I think of Amara held at gunpoint by Lola's men, of Svetlana bleeding on the sidewalk. "There's no one," I say quietly.

Dr. Espina's expression shifts slightly, concern deepening in her eyes. "Ms. Doe, we'll need some personally identifying information for our records. Something that might help us contact someone for you."

I look at her, unsure how to answer. If I give her my name, then I risk putting myself into a system that Lola can search through. And if she can search for me, then she might come to finish the job.

But then again…

Maybe Anatoly will find me through the same system.

I chew my lip, anxiety twisting in my stomach. "If I give you my real name... will my information remain private? Can the hospital guarantee that people won't be able to find me here?" I lean forward slightly. "It's important."

Dr. Espina' expression softens with understanding. She's probably seen women in situations like mine before—though I doubt any quite as complicated as marrying into the Russian mafia.

"Under patient confidentiality laws, we cannot disclose your information to anyone without your explicit permission," she explains.

"We take privacy very seriously, especially in sensitive situations.

The only exceptions would be for law enforcement with proper warrants, but even then, there will be protections in place. "

I nod slowly, weighing my options. If I stay as Jane Doe, I might protect myself from Lola finding me... but I'll also make it impossible for Anatoly to find me if he's looking as well.

And despite everything, I want him to find me. I want him to know about our baby.

"My name is..." I hesitate, wondering just how much truth I can give her. Then, I make my decision. "Indigo Baryshev."

A flutter of recognition crosses Dr. Espina' face when she hears the name Baryshev. Her eyes widen slightly, and her pen pauses mid-stroke on her clipboard.

My heart drops. Is she on bratva payroll? Does she recognize the Baryshev name? Did I just make a terrible mistake?

But the moment passes quickly. Dr. Espina' expression returns to professional neutrality, though I catch a flicker of something—concern? Curiosity?—in her eyes before she masks it.

"Thank you, Ms. Baryshev," she says, writing down my information. "I'll schedule you for an ultrasound as quickly as possible."

She rises from her stool, tucking the clipboard under her arm. "Try to rest until then. I'll send a nurse in shortly to take your vitals again."

With a reassuring nod, Dr. Espina walks out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

A few minutes after Dr. Espina leaves, Marcus returns, nudging the door open with his foot. He's carrying two cups in his hands. A coffee for himself and what smells like chamomile tea for me.

"Thought you might want something that isn't hospital water," he says, setting the tea on my bedside table.

This time, Marcus doesn't push for explanations about where I've been or what happened. He just sits in the chair beside my bed, sipping his coffee. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable. It's the kind that comes from knowing someone long enough that words aren't always necessary.

I'm grateful for his quiet presence. And most importantly, for not making me lie or tell half-truths.

Through the corner of my eye, I catch movement in the hallway and see someone pausing outside my room.

When I glance over, my heart nearly stops.

Ryan fucking Bennet.

The man who helped destroy my life. The man who got me that internship, and who told me that he loved me for the two years that we dated at Columbia.

Who practically gift-wrapped me up for his monster of a father that awful summer.

His chestnut hair is styled differently than I remember, and he's wearing an expensive suit that's a far cry from the casual clothes I knew him in.

Our eyes meet, and I watch recognition bloom across his face—first confusion, then surprise, and then something dark and hungry.

His gaze flicks to the hospital door, taking in my name, before they return to me.

I quickly turn away, angling my body toward the window and away from both Marcus and the doorway. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as I pray that Ryan will keep walking.

But then, as if calling me from the depth of my nightmares, a single word comes out of his lips.

"Amelia?"