Page 12 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

The air between us crackles with tension. Ice blue eyes meet with my hazel green in the glass as we continue to stare at each other, each one daring the other to look away first.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. Anatoly's gaze finally dips.

For a triumphant second, I think I've won.

Until I realize he's not looking at my body.

He's staring at my thighs.

At the network of thin white scars crisscrossing my skin in neat, measured rows. The victory that had flooded my veins a second ago now evaporates and dies in my throat.

Victory floods my veins until I realize he's not looking at my body.

"Don't." My voice cracks. "Don't look at them."

Anatoly's eyes lift back to mine, and what I see there isn't pity, but something worse.

Anger.

"Who did this to you?"

I stare at him through the mirror, heart racing as I force my mouth to remain shut. He looks back at me with an intense anger in his eyes, and I know that he’s asking in sincerity. He’s asking me that question so that he can hurt the person who did it.

But I can’t give him the answer he wants, because I’m the one who gave myself those scars.

"Just give me that dress," I say, and accidentally retreating a step only to bump against his solid chest.

Anatoly looks at me as if he might refuse, and his free hand thumbs the point where my shoulder connects to my neck. Warmth blossoms from the point of contact, and I feel my throat tightening as his eyes continues to lock me in place.

"When you become my wife tomorrow," he finally says. "There will be no more secrets between us. What is yours will become mine. Including your scars and the reasons for them."

"You're forcing me into this marriage for your own benefit." A bitter laugh escapes my throat. "I don't owe you my honesty, and you don't get to own my past."

I expect anger. A harsh retort.

He responds by placing his heavy arms around me until I'm cocooned in his touch. Goosebumps rise in his warm embrace. I hold my breath as he leans in closer to unfurl the beautifully revealing dress.

"You're right," he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "I am forcing you into this."

Slowly, he opens it, undoing the lace holding the top together. The silky material rustles slightly as he opens it up for me to step into.

"But that doesn't mean I want to see you suffer." He holds the dress open before me. "Put it on, printsessa."

The gentleness in his voice catches me off guard. He’s not commanding or mocking me now. And for some reason, it sounds almost tender.

Almost like he cares.

I step into the dress without argument and keep my eyes fixed on the front of my shoes as I allow him to guide the material up my body. His knuckles brush against my skin, trailing fire as he adjusts it up my back.

"Hold still," he murmurs, his breath ghosting across my bare shoulder.

His fingers brush the small of my back as he makes small adjustments behind me, each touch sending little electric shocks through my body. I expect him to lace me up with brutal efficiency, but instead, he takes his time to savor each movement as he carefully dresses me.

The sound is quiet, but in the room where the only other sounds are our breaths and racing hearts. And in the heavy, pregnant silence, they might as well be as loud as gunshots.

The dress tightens gradually around my ribs, and he holds me by my waist to steady me.

"I'm not a monster, Indigo." His voice is low, intimate in my ear. "Despite what you may think."

"You came to kill me two days ago," I remind him.

"But did I?"

No. I admit silently. You didn't.

Not only did he not kill me. He saved me.

Twice.

His hands—hot and steady—hover over the back of my neck, and his deft fingers tie the laces together to secure the dress around my throat.

Each gentle motion leaves my skin more sensitive than before, and more aware just how little space remains between us.

Every once in a while, his knuckles will make contact, and I have to fight to keep myself from the shivers and gasps that threaten to betray me.

"There."

His palms rest briefly against my shoulder blade as if to steadying me before he may look at his handiwork. Warmth seeps through me, but I don't raise my head.

Then, Anatoly's finger finds the bottom of my chin at the point where my pulse thunders. I swallow.

"Look," he commands, and tilts my head up.

The woman staring back isn't me. She can't be me.

She stands tall and elegant in ivory silk that skims her curves like water, the plunging neckline framing her collarbone, the open back revealing just enough skin to be daring without being vulgar.

The slit that runs up her legs reveals a flash of bronze coppery skin, and I can't see the familiar scars on the inside of her thighs.

"Oh," I breathe, the word barely audible.

My fingers drift to the delicate beading at the waist, tracing the intricate pattern. The dress transforms me, erasing the scared girl who's been jumping at shadows for two years and replacing her with someone powerful.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, unable to look away from my reflection.

Anatoly steps closer behind me. Taking my hands in his, he pulls me closer to his body as his eyes find mine in the mirror. "No, Indigo. You are beautiful."

I should step away and remind both him and myself that none of this is real. That I'm just a pawn in his game against Bennet. But I don't and lean slightly into his touch instead.

His eyes darken as he notices, pupils expanding as we drink in the image of us together. Our breathing syncs, and then a moment later, so do our hearts. His fingers spread mine apart for a moment before lacing through them.

In the mirror, we look like a couple preparing for their wedding.

And for one dangerous moment, I let myself imagine that all of this is real.