Page 5 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

"Amelia! Is that really you?"

Before Marcus can stand up to stop him, and before I can tell him to fuck off, Ryan Bennet is walking through the doors of my hospital room.

His face splits into that practiced smile he used to charm his way into my life on the first day of Columbia.

But no smile can hide the sleazy gleam in his eyes. That part hasn't changed at all. I just wish I recognized that on the first day I met him, and not what felt like the worst day of my life two years ago.

Because he had that same fucking smile when he came to me at the end of that summer.

After his father did all those unspeakable things to me.

And right before I told him to fuck off and never come near me again.

"Ryan." I try my best to keep my hostility restrained in a public place like this.

I won't pretend to give him the presumption of a pleasant surprise. He's the last person I want to see right now.

How dare he stand here, acting like we should be friends. If he notices my icy attitude, he sure doesn't act on it. Or he doesn't care to act on it.

"What do you want, Ryan?"

"Well, I was supposed to be here to do a speaking engagement for dad. But after everything that happened yesterday—"

"—You mean after he was fucking murdered?"

I don't mean to correct him about his rapist of a father. But there's something unbelievably callous at the way he's casually talking about what should've been one of the most tragic things in his life.

Like he's talking about the Knicks losing a regular season game.

God, Amara was right when she told me he gave her the ick from the first moment she met him.

I don't know what I ever saw in him.

"Right." He nods. "After the murder, the rest of the staff thought that it would be best if we carried on his work.

Make his death mean something. You know what I mean?

He didn't have to die for nothing. And truthfully speaking, the media can't exactly go around slandering him anymore. So, I consider it a win-win."

You colossal piece of shit.

"I just thought you might be busy mourning."

"That can come later. Mom's not that cut up about it, and I figured I don't need to be either until the funeral itself.

" He pulls up a nearby seat, and in the process, gives Marcus a sideways arrogant glance.

"At any rate, she's been preparing for his funeral since their divorce two years ago. So, no love lost there."

Fuck you.

His eyes travel over my body, and that sleazy gleam in his eyes flashes just a little bit brighter. I can't help but pull the sheets higher.

"But I didn't think I'd see you again. I mean, wow. Amelia Taylor." He finally looks me in the eye. "You look good, by the way."

My jaw drops open "Are you fucking serious right now, Ryan?"

"What? I'm not allowed to compliment you?"

"I'm in a fucking hospital! And you think you have the right to just come in and comment about how good I look?"

"You're right." He holds up his hands and gives a non-apologetic bow with his head. "That was super inappropriate of me. I just didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"Yeah, and I was hoping I'd never see you again. But here you fucking are."

The subtle shift in Ryan's expression is unmistakable. Politeness vanishes, and the sleaziness in his eyes turn predatory as he looks at me. I want to tear my eyes away, but I'm afraid that if I do, he's going to keep undressing me with those eyes.

"Look, Amelia, I said I was sorry, alright?

" His hand moves like he wants to touch my arm, but he stops when he sees that I'm staring icy daggers at him.

"What, do you want me to get on my knees and beg you for forgiveness?

For what? For some bullshit that my dad did?

That's all in the past. Let it go. And maybe once you do, we can catch up again. I'd love to take you to dinner and—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" The words explode loud enough to finally get him to shut up for once. "Are you seriously trying to ask me out on a fucking date right now? Have you noticed that you haven't even once asked about just how the fuck I ended up in here in the first place?"

Ryan stands up, and the fake friendliness in his voice finally gives way to indignity and reveals who he really is underneath the surface.

Just an angry man who hates it when he's not getting his way.

He jabs a finger in my face, snarling. "You know—"

That's when Marcus rests a heavy hand on Ryan's arm. "I think it's time to leave, son."

"Fuck off." Ryan shoves Marcus away before he turns back to me. "You haven't changed one fucking bit, Amelia. You're still that same holier-than-thou bitch who thinks she has the right to lecture people."

"Oh, you're one to talk, Ryan." I sit up straighter now in bed. "Because from where I am right now, you're still the biggest piece of shit I've ever met in my life. Even more than your father."

"Don't you dare talk about my father," he hisses. "My father was a good man."

"Your father was a fucking rapist!" The words that I tried to scream at him two years ago in that awful summer finally came pouring out. "And I'm glad he's fucking dead. Because death is the least he fucking deserves for what he did to me."

"Shut your fucking mouth." He shakes his head dangerously.

But I don't care anymore.

"Or what? Are you going to shut it for me? Like your father did?"

A dark shadow passes over Ryan's face, and for a moment, I think that maybe I might've said too much. Pushed him too far. Then, his hand rises. Dread rushes through my heart as I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting to feel the crack of his hand across my face.

But it never comes.

Instead, I hear a deep rumbling voice snarling. "Get the fuck away from my wife."

My eyes fly open to see Anatoly standing by the hospital bed. His broad shoulders tense and his ice-blue eyes burning with unspeakable anger. And he's squeezing Ryan's wrist so tightly that Ryan's entire hand has turned gone limp.

"Who the fuck are you?" Ryan asks, but I can hear the uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Anatoly leans in closer, and it's like the air gets sucked out with each inch he gets into Ryan's face. His presence—controlled violence barely contained in a designer suit—is overwhelming.

And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"I'm her husband," Anatoly says, each word clipped and dangerous. "And if you so much as think about putting your hands on her, I will kill you."

Something shivers through me, and I remember what he told me once in the past.

I make examples.

Ryan's eyes dart between me and Anatoly, processing this new information. I can see the calculation in his eyes as the political animal tries to figure out if this is someone who matters in his world.

"This is just a misunderstanding," Ryan says. "Amelia and I go way back. You just happened to have caught us in a spirited conversation."

Anatoly doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Just stares at Ryan with those cold blue eyes that promise violence.

"Her name," he snarls, "is Indigo. And this is the last time you will ever speak to her."

"Fine." Ryan drags the word out, but he's clearly not ready to back down. "And what is your name?"

"Anatoly Baryshev."

"Ryan Bennet." Ryan cocks his head to introduce himself.

The flash of anger crossing Anatoly's face when Ryan introduces himself is unmistakable. And he responds by squeezing Ryan's wrist tighter.

Ryan winces but doesn't break eye contact.

"Baryshev…" His brow furrows. "That sounds awfully familiar."

"I congratulated your father on his victory," Anatoly says. "Shortly before he met an unfortunate end."

Ryan nods. "But that's not all, is it?"

"No." Anatoly smiles darkly. "It's not."

"And when you say that you’ll kill me if I so much as think about putting my hands on Amelia." The gleam in Ryan's eyes return. "That's not an empty threat either. Is it, Mr. Baryshev?"

"Correct."

Ryan scoffs as a shit-eating grin breaks out on his face. "This is a public place, Baryshev. There are witnesses."

"I don't give a fuck, you limp-dicked asswipe."

Suddenly, a new fear seeps into my heart. Anatoly is furious right now, that much is obvious.

And I know what can happen when he's furious.

Especially when he's furious at the thought of someone trying to hurt me.

He saw Ryan raise his hand to hit me.

And right now, he’s glaring at Ryan, as if he’s thinking which bone he wants to break first.

"Anatoly," I whisper. "Please. Not here. Not now."

When he hears my voice, Anatoly's gaze finds mine, and it lingers on my pleading expression. Understanding passes between us. Slowly, he loosens his grasp enough for Ryan to wrench free.

The tightness around his mouth softens enough for me to notice, and hostility slowly melts away into genuine concern.

In that moment, the contrast between the two men couldn't be clearer. The vile liar from my past who hid everything behind a gilded face, and my dark violent avenger who’s never once been anything other than honest with me.

But most importantly, he's willing to back down when I need him to.

And right now, more than anything else, I need him to.

"This isn't over, Baryshev." Ryan rubs his wrist. "Not by a fucking long shot."

"Funny," Anatoly replies, never breaking his eye contact with me. "Your father said the same thing. Now if you're done making empty threats and harassing my wife, you can fuck off."

Ryan gives everyone one final glare in the room, his eyes focusing for a short moment on Marcus' shirt that bears the name of the barbershop on it.

A sneer flits across his face. He turns without a word, and walks out of the room, past Dr. Espina who stands there with an apologetic expression on her face.

But I don't care about that anymore. The only thing I care about is the fact that Anatoly is here. He's really here. My lips start trembling, and he closes the distance and sits down by the bed.

That's when the dam breaks inside of me, and I throw myself into his arms, sobbing as the events of the past day come rushing at me faster and faster.

Svetlana crumpling to the ground.

The bitter taste of the Mifeprex dissolving in my mouth.

Grisha's hand running up my thigh.

The weight of the gun in my hand.

Collapsing in the barbershop and waking up here.

It's all so overwhelming. And as I cry, a knot starts unraveling in my gut, and it feels like someone has loosened a noose around my neck. But as it loosens, so does the control over my own storm of emotions, and I cry harder as I cling to Anatoly.

"I'm sorry," I choke out between sobs. "I'm so sorry."

His arms tighten around me, one hand cradling the back of my head while he buries one tiny kiss after another in my mussed-up hair.

"There's nothing to be sorry about, printsessa," he whispers against my hair. "You did nothing wrong. I have you now. You're safe."

But no matter what he says, I can't stop the tears or the violent shakes that take over my body.

"Svetlana," I stammer. "They shot Svetlana—"

"Svetlana's alive," he says, his voice steady and sure. "She'll make it. I promise."

A fresh wave of relief washes over me, making me sob harder. I bury my face against his chest, not caring that I'm soaking his expensive shirt with tears and probably snot too.

"And Amara? Is she alright?"

Anatoly's grip slackens, and fresh terror seizes my heart when he speaks. "They took her. But I'll get her back."

There's nothing that I can do other than nod as my tears soak the front of his shirt.

"Is it true?" His voice cracks slightly, just barely, but I catch it. "Are you... Are you pregnant?"

I pull back just enough to look at his face, to see the vulnerability there that he rarely shows to anyone. My hand finds his and guides it to rest on my stomach.

"I..." I whisper. " I don't know if the baby is alright."

Dr. Espina interrupts us, clearing her throat gently as she steps into the room.

"The ultrasound technicians are on their way now," she says, looking between us with professional detachment. "We'll know more about the baby's condition very soon."

Anatoly nods, his hand still resting protectively over my stomach. "Thank you, doctor."

His voice is steady and sure. But I'm not.

Terror crawls up my throat like bile as the reality of what happened hits me all over again.

What if my baby isn't okay? What if all that running, that violence, that trauma was too much? What if...

I gently push Anatoly's hand away and sit up straighter, my heart hammering in my chest.

I have to ask.

I need to know.

"Dr. Espina," I call out as she turns to leave. My voice cracks, betraying my fear. "How much Mifeprex does it take to terminate a pregnancy?"

The doctor turns back, her brow furrowing. Anatoly stiffens beside me. For a brief moment, alarm crosses his face.

"Mifeprex?" Dr. Espina asks carefully. "The abortion pill? Why do you ask, Mrs. Baryshev?"