Page 38 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

The key turns in my old apartment door, and when I push it open, it feels like stepping into another lifetime.

Everything's exactly as I left it. There are dishes still in the drying rack, my hairbrush sits on the coffee table, and Amara's textbooks stacked by the couch.

The only thing that hasn't stayed the same is the fact that there isn't a single trace of two men Anatoly killed when he took me away from here. There's no bloodstains on the floor, no bullet holes in the walls.

Anatoly and Roma move through the apartment in silence, checking the windows, the locks, and corners to make sure that we're truly empty.

But underneath the well-practiced motions, both their motions are mechanical. And every time I catch a glimmer of Anatoly's eyes, I can' t help but notice the emptiness I see in them.

He lost his brother today.

When he's satisfied with everything, Anatoly sinks onto the well-worn couch. It's the same one where I'd curled up on while Mom and Dad hugged me close after that awful summer. The same place where I cried myself asleep after their funeral.

Now it holds my husband, shell-shocked and grieving.

Roma speaks in hushed tones on his phone in my parents' old room, and the door is cracked just enough for the light to spill into the hallway. There are guards stationed downstairs and around the block. They're watching every approach to the building.

We should be safe.

But none of that matters to Anatoly. He looks broken.

His eyes are fixed on nothing as they stare directly ahead at the worn floorboards like they're the most interesting thing in the world. His hands—those powerful, deadly hands that I've come to love—rest limply on his knees.

"Tolya," I whisper, sitting beside him. The couch dips with my weight, but he doesn't shift to accommodate me like he usually does.

When he doesn't respond, I take his hand in mine. His fingers are cold.

"I'm sorry," I say, knowing the words are inadequate but I need to say them anyways.

Something flickers in his eyes—the first sign of life I've seen since we escaped the burning mansion.

"He died saving you," Anatoly says, his voice rough with smoke and emotion. "He died doing what I asked of him."

I squeeze his hand. "He died a hero."

Anatoly finally turns to look at me, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my heart ache. "I couldn't bring his body out of there. And now I'll never be able to find him again."

I lean forward and cradle Anatoly's head against my chest. His body is stiff at first, as if he's fighting against the comfort I'm offering. But I persist, and keep him close anyway.

Slowly, he relents, and I press my lips to his forehead for a soft, gentle kiss.

"There was nothing you could've done," I whisper, stroking his hair. The thick strands feel gritty with ash and smoke. "The fire was too intense. Vassily would've wanted you to save us. And you did."

I mean well with my words, but I also know that they won't console him. At least not in the way he wants.

Anatoly isn't the kind of person who wants gentle reassurances or pity.

He wants blood. He wants vengeance. He wants to tear apart those responsible with his bare hands.

But I can't offer him that. All I can give is this moment of quiet as the world burns down around us.

"My mother..." Anatoly finally speaks, his voice muffled against my body. The words come slowly, haltingly, as if each one costs him something precious. "She went to Lola. To the Volkovs. Against her own sons."

His shoulders shake once, not with a sob but with disbelief and rage.

"Vassily was always her favorite," he continues, his voice flat with shock. "Her golden boy. And it meant nothing to her. She let that bitch butcher him."

I hold him tighter as the magnitude of this betrayal washes over him. Anatoly's right. His mother sacrificed her most beloved son. The same son who had followed her every command for years. Who did her bidding without question.

And for what?

For a girl who had only an imaginary claim to my husband? For an alliance that had already been ripped to tatters long before Anatoly entered my life? For an imaginary honor that exists only between thieves and criminals?

It's fucking unfair.

And it's cruel beyond measure.

"It's my fault. What happened to Vassily and what happened to your home." My voice cracks. "If I'd just been ruthless with Valentina instead of showing her mercy, she wouldn't have gone to Lola."

I force myself to pull back to meet Anatoly's gaze.

The confession doesn't come easy, but it's been on my mind ever since we left from the burning wreckage of the mansion.

"And Vassily might still be alive."

Anatoly's expression is unreadable as he studies my face.

For a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, I'm afraid he might agree with me. That he might look at me and finally see what everyone has accused me of all along: that I'm not cut out for this world.

That I really am the reason for everything that has gone wrong in his life.

But then he shakes his head.

"No." He takes my face between his palms. "This isn't your fault."

"But—"

"But nothing." He interrupts me. "What my mother chose to do with that mercy was her decision alone. It's not your fault that you showed her mercy and she chose to throw it back in our faces."

"But I should've guessed that she might do something like this."

"So should have I," he replies. "But you're not the only one who chose mercy for her.

I did too. I had her put a gun to her head only to let her live at the end of it.

Both of us showed her mercy when she deserved none, and now both of us are paying the same price for it. I won't let you blame only yourself."

I nod slowly, accepting his words that absolve me of my guilt, even if I'm not fully ready to do so to myself just yet.

The weight of the day still presses down on me, but at least I can breathe a little easier knowing Anatoly doesn't blame me.

"What happens now?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "What's our next move?"

Anatoly's eyes glances over to my parents' old bedroom, where Roma is still murmuring into his phone.

"Roma's making calls," Anatoly says. "Checking on the overall status of our operations after what just happened. Our first priority is to make sure that the bratva can still function for one final strike."

A shiver rushes down my spine at the certainty in his voice. I recognize that tone. It's the same one that he used when he once looked up at me from between my legs and promised me the hands of the man who left the scars on my thighs.

"You intend to end this war," I say. It's not a question. "Once and for all."

"Once and for all."

The pieces click together in my mind.

"You're going to kill Valentina and Taras Volkov."

"Yes." His voice is ice. "Both of them at the same time."

"How?" I ask, not because I disapprove, but because I want to understand just what his plans are. "It's not like you can just walk into Volkov territory and expect to walk out easily."

"That's true, it won't be easy. Taras will likely be holed up with as many guards as he can surround himself with, especially once he learns what happened to his precious daughter."

"But the Bratva has taken losses. Where will you get the people that you need to pull this off?"

Anatoly ponders my question, his eyes growing distant. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and deliberate.

"Killian O'Shea."

"The same Killian that Grisha wanted to sell Amara to?"

He nods. "The very same."

"But why would he help us?"

"Killian wants control of the Brighton Beach holdings that used to belong to the Volkov Bratva," Anatoly explains, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the back of my hand. "He was under the impression that I would do all of the fighting for him to get it."

I process this information, the pieces clicking together in my mind. "And you plan on making him earn those holding by fighting with you side by side?"

"Yes," he replies. "If I were to take the Brighton Beach holdings from Taras and then simply hand them over to Killian, all it would do is create problems later on with the other Russian families who view it as the heartland of bratva power.

If I make him fight for it, then the other families might be more amenable to relinquishing the Volkov holdings. "

The plan makes sense, and before the losses that the bratva suffered today, I might've believed in it. But hearing him talk like this, I can't help but feel the knot in my stomach that won't go away.

"What's wrong?" Anatoly asks, his thumb brushing across my cheek.

I want to say that nothing is wrong, but I can't bring myself to lie to him. Not now.

"I almost lost you twice in the last twenty-four hours," I whisper, my voice catching. "And—"

I stop myself.

I want to tell him that we've been lucky all the way up until now.

Everything from me being taken by Grisha, to Amara being brought back before she disappeared forever into an awful world I can't even imagine, that Anatoly managed to avoid seeing the insides of a prison, and that we survived the attack on the mansion.

But we barely survived every trial and ordeal by the skin of our teeth.

It's only a matter of time before that luck runs out.

And what happens when it does run out? What if he goes on this plan of his to kill Taras and Valentina and never comes back?

There's a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I'm being selfish, that this is bigger than me, and that I should keep that thought to myself.

But there's another voice reminding me that refusing to voice my own opposition and letting other bulldoze over me was what led me here in the first place.

After all, aren't I to say my fears out loud? Aren't I allowed to be selfish for once in my life?

What's the point of marrying an all-powerful pakhan, if I'm still walking on eggshells at the thought that one day, he'll walk out that door to do something for the bratva and never come home to me?

So, I take a deep breath, gather myself, and start speaking.

"I'm afraid that I might lose you for good this time. And I don't want to lose you, Anatoly." My voice breaks. "I don't want our child to grow up never knowing who their father is."

I hate how scared I sound. I'm supposed to be his queen and his equal. But instead, I sound like some terrified girl afraid to let her husband do what needs to be done.

Anatoly cups my face between his hands, forcing me to look him in the eyes. His gaze is intense, burning with determination.

"You won't lose me, Indigo."

"You don't know that!" I snap. "You don't know that you'll actually be able to come back. Even if you have Killian backing you."

He looks at me, never breaking eye contact.

"You're right, I don't know that," he says after a long silence. "And I know that the probability of me dying out there isn't zero."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're not doing a great job."

"No." He smiles sadly as he takes my hand in his.

"But haven't you seen by now just how extraordinary the power of our love has been?

Don't you remember one improbable event after another that has led us to this exact moment?

Haven't you lost count of one impossible odd after another that we've been able to overcome because of our trust and love for each other, even before we realized that it was love? "

I shake my head, squeezing his hand tightly. "It wasn't just love that got us through this, Anatoly. Love gave us strength, yes. But it was our actions that kept us alive."

His eyebrows furrow slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that we survived because we were unpredictable.

We did things our enemies never expected.

" I sit up straighter, my mind racing. "When Grisha took me on that train, I survived because I did something he didn't anticipate.

And when you came for me at the mansion, you broke through because you attacked from multiple directions. "

"I guess we did, didn't we?"

"If you go after Taras with a frontal assault—even with Killian's help—you'll be walking into exactly what he's expecting. Taras will be waiting for you, and Taras will kill you."

His jaw tightens as he processes my words.

"What are you suggesting then?"

"Don't go to them," I say, the plan forming as I speak. "Make them come to you."

"And how exactly would I accomplish that?"

I stand up, too restless to remain seated as my thoughts race. "We need to make Taras think the war is over. That he's won. And that he's being invited to claim his prize."

Suddenly, it clicks.

"Killian!" I spin to face Anatoly. "What if you go to Killian, but instead of asking him to join an attack, you have him pretend that he's holding you prisoner? He could tell Taras he captured you and is offering him the chance to execute you personally as compensation for Lola and Grisha's death."

Anatoly's eyes widen slightly.

"They'll both come," I continue, the plan unfurling rapidly now as I speak. "Taras for vengeance and Valentina to see the son who disowned her finally fall. And once they're both there..."

"We spring the trap," Anatoly finishes, a dangerous gleam entering his eyes. "And kill them both."

"Yes."

"That's brilliant, britvochka." He takes my hand in his. "You're brilliant. As brilliant as you were in that barbershop when you held a razor to my throat."

I can't help smiling sadly now. "You mean when I tried to kill you before you could kill me?"

"Yes. And I should've realized back then that you were doing exactly what you proposed in this plan just now." He squeezes my hand gently. "Never do what your enemy expects."

"Can't say that I'm not consistent."

He brings my hand up to his lips to plant one soft kiss after another on my knuckles.

"You made a good plan," he says, each word deliberate and solid as stone.

"And when it's over, britvochka, I'll come back.

To you and to our baby." His voice softens.

"We'll rebuild everything exactly the way we want it.

The way you deserve. And then I'll spend the rest of my days with you until the sun burns out and all the stars fall from the sky. Because I love you, Indigo."

I thumb over the tops of his fingers, and bring them close to my lips now, smelling the bitter tang of smoke and ash still clinging to his skin.

This man walked through fire to save me.

How many others would do that?

I lean forward until our foreheads touch and breathe deeply. Underneath the smoke and ash, I can detect the light unmistakable scent that is just him.

The smell of safety.

The smell of home.

"I know you'll make this plan work." I tell him.

"And when you come back to me, we'll rebuild everything exactly the way we want it.

The way we deserve. And I can't wait to spend the rest of my days with you until the sun burns out and all the stars fall from the sky. Because I love you, too, Anatoly."