Page 10 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

ANATOLY

I flick the razor open and closed in my study as I think.

Not about my new plans, or how everything changed, but about her.

Indigo Taylor, standing in my house against my window and asking me just how convincing she has to be. All while she stares up at me with those soft hazel eyes and sweet innocent face. Pressed up snugly against my body, all small and trembling and perfect.

Like she’s made for me.

And then she started running her hand down my torso down my pants, and now I can’t get her out of my head. I want to convince myself that whatever the fuck happened back there didn’t happen.

But it did. It fucking did.

The razor flies open and I flick it closed again.

It’s not like me to push a woman away, especially not one like Indigo Taylor when she’s got her hand practically around my cock and her ass in my hand. But I had to. If I didn’t, I would’ve pushed her up against that window, fist in her hair, while I make that ass bounce on my cock.

But I didn’t want to do that to her.

I don’t know why the thought entered my mind when it did back in that room, but it was the only thing that brought a sliver of reason back into my brain.

I keep the razor open this time.

Maybe I chose to give her that small bit of mercy to thank her for not actually killing me in that barbershop. Not for lack of trying, as evidenced by the thin red line on my neck.

No, that’s not it. I shake my head, and force myself to go back to thinking about just what it is that makes her someone Bennet is so desperate to silence.

Ever since that internship… The words I read from her sister’s journal earlier today reminds me.

That internship must’ve been in Bennet’s office, or somewhere close enough that she must’ve witnessed something terrible. And whatever it is, Bennet is afraid that if it gets out, it’ll kill his chances at winning this election.

That’s the secret buried deep in her head. And once I have it, it’ll deliver me this city.

But to get to it, I have to peel back the defensive layers she’s put up around herself like a matryoshka doll. Every time I get close to something, all I find is another mystery to solve. Another set of questions to answer.

And frustratingly, at the thought of peeling back her layers, another unexpected rush of warmth shoots to my cock, and I slam the razor on the table.

Dammit! This was supposed to be simple, but it’s starting to be pretty damn complicated when I can’t think clearly when I’m near her.

And now I’m about to marry her.

The study door opens without a knock. I don’t even bother looking at Roma as he walks in, grabs a bottle of whiskey, and sits down at the desk opposite from me.

“Bodies are cleaned up and Kusma’s fine, thanks for asking.

Nothing but a couple of broken ribs.” He kicks his feet up on the desk, ignoring my glare as he flashes me a cheeky smile.

“A few days in bed, a bottle of vodka, and a good session in the banya, and he’ll be ready for you to break his other ribs. ”

“Kusma should’ve known better than to look at what doesn’t belong to him.” I look up in annoyance

“In his defense, nobody knew that she was your new fiancée at the time.” He takes a generous swig and tilts the bottle at me. “Mind explaining just what the fuck happened?”

I decline it. “I thought I told you already.”

“No, you haven’t. And you know as well as I do, you don’t have a lot of time before Mother and the Volkovs find out about what you’ve done. So, care to share with me just why you’re about to end this alliance for some no-name girl off the streets?”

“Bennet wants to kill her, and he’s reaching out to every outfit available in town. That means she’s worth far more alive than dead”

“But why marry her?” Roma thuds the bottle down. “You can do what you were planning on doing by parading her on your arms in public. She doesn’t have to be your wife for that.”

He’s not necessarily wrong. Marriages in the bratva are rarely for love, and few wives expect their husbands to be faithful to them.

But every once in a while, you get a pakhan’s wife who actually believes in their marriage vows enough to do something.

When that happens, things tend to get complicated.

And I don’t need things to get any more complicated than they already are.

“You think Lola would’ve been fine with me parading Indigo around on my arms?”

Roma flips me his middle finger and shakes his head, smirking. “Don’t tell me you did this for Lola’s fucking honor.”

“I didn’t.” I tell him. “I did it to keep Indigo safe from her.”

“Never took you for the altruistic kind of person.”

Neither did I.

Miels is crying again tonight. She's been doing that a lot this summer.

I snatch up the bottle, take a long, hard swig, and swallow the burn down my throat. Red rage starts creeping into the edge of my vision and I start talking to keep it at the edges.

“I have a job for you.”

“Just one?” Roma extends his hand for the bottle.

“Just one.” I pass it back to him. “I need you to get the family signet ring from Mother.”

“Yebats!” Roma curses. “You’re going to make this real? Why?”

That’s a very good question. Maybe it’s because I can still feel the way her hands were shaking when she had the razor up against my throat. I can still sense her desperation in that moment.

Because I still want to unravel the mystery that is Indigo Taylor—of why she didn’t kill me when she had every reason to.

It can’t just be because of the innocence I can feel on her skin. I’ve done worse things to plenty of innocent people.

It’s something else that I can’t quite put my finger on just yet.

“Tolya?” Roma’s voice shakes me out of my reverie.

“It’s what’s best.” My voice strains. “For the family, and for the Bratva.”

Roma holds my gaze a moment longer, but he doesn’t argue. That’s good. Because I’m in no mood to try and explain something to him that I don’t even understand.

He looks at the bottle for a long while, and then back at me. Finally, he sighs, puts it on the table and slides it over to me. “A word of warning before I go?”

“Didn’t think you’d leave without one.”

“I can see the logic behind what you’re doing,” he says. “Believe me, I do. But the Volkovs will see only opportunity with you marrying Indigo, and—”

“That’s exactly what I’m preparing for. If Indigo can put Bennet, and by extension, the city in my pocket, then we won’t need the Volkovs.”

“Let me finish.”

I glare at him.

“Mother won’t hand over the signet ring lightly,” he says. “Not after what she did to get it.”

No. No, she won’t.

“Shall I send her the words as well?” I ask.

Eto moi prikaz. Three simple words that carry the weight of the world, and issue a command where disobedience means death.

“Ne nado.” Roma shakes his head. “But do me favor, and don’t forget what you’re doing this for. Don’t lose sight of what’s really important.”

Without waiting for me to respond, he opens the door and walks out.

After Roma leaves, I look back down at the razor on the table and I can’t stop thinking back to the moment our bodies met and her face inches from my own

Miels tells us that she wants us to call her Indigo now.

I’ve never heard a name like that before. It must be short for something. Miels. I run the name over my tongue, but it doesn’t sound quite right. It feels wrong on my lips, like I’m corrupting something good. Something whole.

I take another drink, hoping to use the burn to chase away the nagging answer to the question of why do I care.

Bennet fears her. Wants her dead. That makes her valuable.

She’s just a means to an end. And this is the best way to go about it.

Be convincing.

But my thumb runs over the thin red line she left on my neck, and I think about when she gazed down at me while I stared up at her. Those hazel eyes had been everything. I saw the fear and desperation in her eyes then.

A lifetime of watching men die will do that to you.

But I also saw just something darker flicker in her eyes at that same time.

Because the barbershop wasn’t the only place where I saw that. She had that same dark look in her eyes after she sank her teeth into my hand. A look that tells me she won’t go down without a fight.

You don’t get that look in your eyes unless you’ve stared the devil in the face.

Miels is crying again.

Rage creeps back into my blood, and I replay the events of the last twenty-four hours over in my head. Slowly, realization takes shape in my head about why I have this sudden and growing fascination about her.

It’s not because I saw innocence and goodness in her, even though I did and even though I can tell that’s who and what she is at her core.

It’s because someone nearly extinguished it.

Enough that she drew my blood twice to prevent me from doing the same thing.

I want to know the cause behind it. And then I want to destroy whoever dared to do that to her.

“Fuck.” I take another long pull from the bottle, but the heat spreading through my chest now has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Tomorrow we'll pick out a wedding dress. I'll see her in white, draped in lace and silk.

My innocent bride.

Yet every thought that comes to mind is the exact opposite of innocence. And in every thought, all I see is her soft hazel eyes and her long blue hair. In my bed. Against the glass. On the floor.

After the third time, there will be consequences

I drink again, determined to silence my thoughts.

But a part of me is praying that she crosses that line one more time.