Page 11 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

"Keep your arms straight, please."

It turns out that when you're getting married to a Pakhan on a short notice, you don't go out to a boutique to get fitted for a dress. The boutique will come to you.

The seamstress's fingers press into my ribs, measuring tape pulled tight around my waist. Two other women flutter around me like hummingbirds, pins between their teeth, fabric samples draped across their arms. I'm up on a small pedestal in the middle of one of the mansion's countless rooms, surrounded by mirrors that multiply my discomfort into infinity.

But it's not the endless measuring or the occasional prick of a pin that has my heartbeat racing.

It's him.

Anatoly sits across the room in a leather chair, one ankle resting on his opposite knee.

He’s wearing another perfectly tailored suit today, and his tie is cinched all the way up his neck.

And just like the first time, there isn’t a single wrinkle on his clothing as he watches me with those piercing blue eyes through the mirror.

He hasn't said a word since they started taking my measurements fifteen minutes ago.

"Turn, please."

I rotate mechanically, the movement bringing Anatoly directly into my line of sight. His gaze flicks from my face down to my hips, then slowly back up again, leaving heat in its wake.

"Can I at least see the dresses?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.

One of the women gestures toward a rack beside Anatoly. "After we take your measurements."

Each dress on the rack is more elaborate than the last—beading and lace and yards of delicate fabric. A parade of white fantasy gowns that would make any bride-to-be swoon.

Any real bride-to-be, that is, and not a prisoner forced into a role she never wanted.

"Arms up," another seamstress instructs, tape measure encircling my bust.

I comply, eyes still locked with Anatoly's.

"Getting a good look, Tolya?" I ask him coldly.

If using the name Svetlana used for him is supposed to annoy him, he shows no signs of it. His lips curl slightly. "Yes."

The woman measuring my bust makes a disapproving noise, but doesn't dare say anything.

"Which one would you prefer?" Anatoly asks, nodding toward the dresses.

"The one that comes with a return policy."

This draws a genuine laugh from him—a sound that vibrates through me in places I wish it wouldn't. The seamstresses exchange nervous glances, clearly uncertain about the dynamics between their boss and his unwilling bride.

"Step down now, we'll start with the first option," the lead seamstress says, helping me off the pedestal.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be than here?"

"I'm in no hurry," Anatoly says.

"No hurry?" I challenge. "And yet we're getting married tomorrow, Tolya. Funny how that works."

This time, I manage to get a reaction out of him, and his blue eyes darken slightly. I almost regret saying it this time. Almost.

But that infuriating smirk never leaves his lips, and he traces his thumb over the scar I left on his neck the other day. The gesture shouldn't be as hot as it is, but suddenly, I'm remembering the way his thumb on my wrist and heat begins creeping up my cheeks again.

"Yes, very funny." He stands. "Almost as funny as you addressing me so inappropriately."

The women around me pause and glance between us, unsure of what is about to happen. And if I'm being honest, I have no idea either. All I know is that by using that name, I'm bothering him much more than he's willing to show.

And the knowledge that I can get under his skin is emboldening me in ways that I didn't think were possible.

So, I stare back at him as he stands close to me. "Isn't that why you chose to marry me? Because it's inappropriate?"

"Did Svetlana teach you that name?"

I press my lips together, refusing to answer. Even though I wouldn't ever say that Svetlana is a friend, I don’t want to get her in trouble.

Anatoly's eyes narrow at my silence. "Svetlana has overstepped her place."

My stomach twists with worry. Will he hurt her for that, like he did with that guard who dared to look at me? But something about the way he says it—annoyed rather than truly angry—makes me doubt he'll actually harm her.

He snaps his fingers, the sharp sound making me flinch. "Bring the dresses," he commands the seamstresses, who hurry to wheel the rack closer.

He turns back to me. "Choose one."

I stare at the collection of white dresses, each more beautiful than the last. This should be one of the happiest moments in my life: choosing my wedding dress.

But all I feel is hollowness, coldness, and a crushing loneliness.

My fingers trail along the fabrics—silk, satin, lace, tulle. Some sleekly elegant, others princess-like with full skirts. Most are tasteful, expensive, and modest. But they're not what I'm looking for.

I want something that will annoy him.

Then I see it.

A dress with a plunging neckline that will reach nearly to my navel, a slit up the leg, and cutouts at the waist. It's elegant yet revealing, and guaranteed to draw every man's eye in the room.

And judging by the way he kicked that guard in the chest for daring to look at me, I'm willing to bet that he'll hate the idea of everyone else staring at me in this dress.

I pull it from the rack and show it to him. "I like this one."

Anatoly's jaw tightens as he studies the dress, and then quickly dart his eyes over at me as if he's imagining how I might look in it.

His hand starts tapping at his thigh, and his nostrils widen ever so slightly.

Then, he steps closer, and the overwhelming heat of his body almost forces me to take a step back.

And when I don't, his eyes darken dangerously.

"Pick another one,” he says. “An appropriate one."

"I thought you liked it when I'm being inappropriate," I tilt my head, looking directly into his eyes.

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching along that perfect jawline. Good. I'm getting to him.

I spin around dramatically, flipping my hair so that it slaps him in the face as I clutch the revealing dress close to my chest.

"I will try this one," I announce to the seamstresses.

Then, I stare at Anatoly's stormy reflection in the mirror and raise my eyebrows innocently.

"Shouldn't you leave for this? It's bad luck to see a bride in her dress before the wedding day."

His powerful fingers find my shoulders before I can react, and my heart starts racing a mile a minute. His presence overwhelms my vision and makes him seem bigger and more intimidating than before. But I won't let him intimidate me, not now.

His jaw tightens and he takes another step closer. One hand remains on my shoulder, burning me through the fabric of my clothes. The other moves down to squeeze the revealing white dress as if he wants to rip it to pieces.

"If you want to be an inappropriate bride wearing an inappropriate dress." His yes burn and his voice drops to a dangerous whisper that sends a burst of heat rushing down my sides with every syllable. "Then I'll be an inappropriate groom and watch you change into it."

My breath wavers like a blade of grass caught in a storm. A hot shiver breaks out along my spine as he steps closer until all space disappears between us. His shirt brushes against mine, and my nipples tingles in anticipation at the thought of him watching me change.

He leans in, hot lips brushing at my ear and sending a spear of wet heat stabbing through me until I can hardly breathe. The heat of his body coils around me like a viper, choking out all thoughts before it sinks its fangs deep into my flesh until fire burns through my bones.

I should step away from him. Put some distance between us. But right now, more than anything else, I just want to press even closer, to seek out his warm delicious heat.

"Well, printsessa? What are you waiting for?"

Those hands suddenly grip my shoulders again, and turns me until I'm facing the mirror.

Our eyes lock in the reflection, and I can see that there's a war in both our eyes. eyes. His are dark with a primal need for control, and mine are wide with a mixture of defiance and desire.

"Everyone out," he commands. "Now."

For one heart-stopping moment, I consider refusing. My fingers clutch the dress like it's a shield that can protect me while his hands remain firm on my shoulders.

His reflection watches me with those piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through my defiance to the fear beneath. The pads of his thumbs trace small circles against my back, and I feel my resolve cracking with each gentle sweep.

Then, he reaches forward and plucks the dress out of my hands.

"I'm waiting," he murmurs, his voice low but carrying the unmistakable weight of command.

I take a deep breath and slowly reach for the hem of my shirt, my eyes never leaving his in the mirror. With trembling fingers, I pull it up and over my head, throwing it aside.

The cool air of the room kisses my skin.

Anatoly sucks in a sharp breath as I throw the shirt away.

"Open your eyes," he whispers, his breath hot and heavy against my ear, and only then do I realize I've squeezed them shut.

When I open them, I'm surprised to find his gaze hasn't moved from my face.

He looks at me with that same look he's had for the past two days: like I'm some kind of mystery for him to solve.

But instead of the expected nervousness, I feel only a strange calmness from his gaze now.

Like he's an anchor in the storm of emotions swirling between us.

"Pants too," he says, his voice rougher now.

I pause, my heart hammering against my ribs. Our eyes remain locked in the mirror as my fingers find the button of my jeans. I slide them down my legs and step out of them, never breaking our stare.

Standing here in just my underwear, I refuse to look away. If I do, he wins this twisted game between us. And if his eyes wander down, then I'll have won.

Just the knowledge that I can turn his attempt at dominance into desire, is victory enough.