Page 13 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

ANATOLY

"We can have it ready by tomorrow afternoon. But there's a few things that we need to adjust."

I nod, hardly hearing the seamstress's words as she prattles on and on in Russian about what needs to be done. My mind is still back to that moment earlier, watching Indigo take off her clothes in front of me with defiance blazing in her hazel-green eyes.

Blyat.

The seamstress continues to drone on about details of the dress, and despite both the cool breeze moving through the room and the breathable fabric of my suit, my body is starting to burn me the fuck up.

"—and the veil can be attached here, if you prefer—"

"Fine." I cut the woman off with a wave of my hand. "Whatever you say."

Shrugging out of my suit jacket, I throw it carelessly aside, clench my jaw, and inhale slowly to try calming myself down. But it's no good.

I can still smell Indigo's floral scent from her hair even though she's all the way on the other end of the room.

There isn't enough distance that I can put between her and myself at this moment, and I have the feeling that even if she were a million miles away, I'd still be able to smell her.

Heat dances across my skin. I tug my tie loose, suddenly feeling like it's strangling me.

"I'll have to readjust some stiches and—"

"Fine." I snap. "Just get it done."

The seamstress nods, scurrying away with the measurements and leaving me alone in the most dangerous territory I can be.

With my own thoughts.

I thought I was in control of the situation when I told her to strip in front of me. It's something that I thought would make her squirm and fold.

But somehow, Indigo managed to turn it around on me the moment she started pulling her shirt over her head while her eyes refuse to break contact with mine.

And even though I knew that she had a body to die for from the first moment of seeing her at the barbershop, nothing could've prepared for me to see it in person.

That image is practically burned into my memory now. Everything from sight to smell to touch. The curve of her waist had fit perfectly in my hand, the soft swell of her breasts in her bra still teases me in my head, and how fucking warm she felt under my touch.

I'm not stupid enough to not admit that I got fucking worked up by what Indigo Taylor looked like without clothes on. And in that moment, every cell in my body screamed at me to push her against the mirror and kiss her.

Really kiss her.

No soft brushes of lips or chaste pretend kisses to show the world.

I want to feel her soft full lips open under the pressure of mine.

I want to swallow her whimpers of pleasure while my fist wraps in her blue hair.

Wrap my tongue against hers as I taste her mouth, hot and wet.

Feel her delicate fingers running down my body.

Blyat…

Heat shoots through my cock, and I feel it getting harder and harder. I clench my jaw and try to force my blood to go somewhere else.

Anywhere else but there.

I might as well be trying to stop the tide from coming in.

The heat around me grows uncomfortably, and I start rolling my sleeves up as the seamstress continues to list out all of the changes that she wants and needs to do to make sure that everything is perfect.

"I trust you know what you're doing," I finally can't hold back anymore. "Stop telling me what you're going to fucking do and go fucking do it."

The seamstress finally stops talking, and she bows her head before she walks away.

Finally.

I suck in another deep breath, feeling my heart thumping in my ear and pounding against my chest. This is something I've never felt before with a woman, and I've had plenty of women in the past. Beautiful women who would do anything I asked without question.

So why am I obsessing over this one who prefers defying me at every turn?

I look over at her, and she's already shrugging into her pants. Her eyes are still downcast, like she's deliberately avoiding my gaze. Then, she takes a deep breath of her own and those soft hazel eyes that I want to see flutters closed.

But my eyes don't leave her.

Slowly, I think about what else I saw.

That crisscrossing web of scars all along the inside of her thighs. My jaw clenches tighter, and I feel like my teeth might shatter any moment from the pressure.

If I hadn't seen those scars, I might have given in to my darker desires. I might've spun her around and claimed that smart mouth with mine. Pressed her against the mirror and showed her exactly what happens when she pushes me too far.

But I hesitated.

I fucking hesitated.

Because I saw those fucking scars.

From the moment I saw those scars, the only thought in my mind is that I want to find the motherfucker who put them there and rip them apart with my bare fucking hands.

And every moment I think about her scars, anger burns just a little hotter inside of me. It goes from a smoldering flame to a raging inferno, filling me with the dangerous thought that I should burn all of New York to the ground just for her.

I run a hand through my hair and exhale slowly as I continue to look at her. Her eyes are closed, and she's taking deep breaths, same as me.

I wonder…

Is she having the same thoughts as me? Is she as bothered and conflicted about what the fuck just happened? Is she also thinking about what I could have done versus what I want to do?

I don't know, but I do know this:

Tomorrow, she becomes my wife. Mine to protect. My secret weapon to put Bennet in my pocket.

She’s going to be the key that lets me control this entire rotten city.

But I have no idea if my control over the city will bring me the control that I need in my life.

Because if I'm being honest with myself, I'm not sure who's truly in control here anymore.