Page 14 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

For two years, Indigo Taylor has been like the prickly quills of a porcupine that keeps the outside world exactly where it belongs: outside.

Where it can never reach me again.

Everything from the blue hair to the calculated indifference that's supposed to keep people at arm's length and hide me from who I used to be, even to myself. All so that nobody can ever get close to me.

The real me.

Somehow, Anatoly has found a way to slip between those defenses with a single question.

And now I feel naked in a way that has nothing to do with standing before him in my underwear a moment ago.

I watch him shrug out of his suit jacket, toss it aside, and roll up his sleeves along his arms while talking in mid-conversation with the seamstresses in staccato Russian.

Every once in a while, he'd give his head a small shake, almost like he's annoyed at whatever the woman is saying, before he sharpens his hushed and hurried tone.

And slowly, he rolls his sleeves up just a little bit higher. From here, I can see the tattoos snaking along his muscular forearms. And even though my face flushes at the sight of it, that's not what I'm thinking about.

I close my eyes.

I can still feel the gentleness of his fingers on my skin, the heat of his body enveloping me, and the brush of his lips against my ear.

"Who did this to you?"

But above all, I can still hear the barely restrained rage in his voice.

He asked that question like the scars were a personal offense to him. Not because it's an imperfection, but because he saw them on me.

I meant it when I told him that I don't owe him my honesty, nor does he get to own my past. But his reaction is both the last thing I expect and everything I want.

A righteous anger on my behalf and a desire to hurt the person who caused me to leave those scars on myself.

And God, I want him to do that so badly.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, something dark and cold slithers down my spine and moves to wrap itself around my heart.

But that dark and twisted thought has already taken root, and no matter how hard I try, I can't chase it out of my head.

Just like how I can't chase Anatoly out of my head.

I take a breath to calm myself.

When I open them, I see his gaze is locked onto mine.

A warm rush shoots through my body and chases away the cold wrapping around my heart, radiating outward until my heartbeat returns to its normal cadence, only to start speeding up again as a new thought begins to nibble away at the back of my head.

How is he able to do that to me with a single question?

But more importantly, how is it possible that my own walls seem to crack apart so easily around him?

Even as I remind myself over and over again that he came to kill me two days ago and that he's a monster, an unsettling idea slowly blossoms in my mind that he can be my monster.

That he's willing to be my monster.

Even if he tells me so openly that I'm just a means to an end for him.

Everything is changing between us. And for all I know, maybe everything has already changed, fundamentally and irrevocably.

He walks over toward me, each step careful and measured in the way that I've come to know him even in this short time. When he reaches me, he extends his hand.

"Shall we?"

He asks it like he cares about what my thoughts are right now. Like I'm actually his fiancée and future bride.

I hesitate.

Is this real or just part of our charade to look convincing?

Does it matter?

I place my hand in his, and his fingers close around mine. His thumb draws a tiny circle against the back of my hand, and the I become all too aware of the way my heart thumps against my ribs.

Hand-in-hand, we walk down a wide hallway in silence, and I become all too aware of the sound of our footsteps. As much as I want to pull my hand out of his, I don't.

His presence surrounds me completely, like I'm caught in his orbit with no way to escape the gravitational pull.

I glance at our joined hands, his thumb still tracing patterns on my skin. Each touch feels like a dangerous intrusion past my carefully constructed barriers. The kind that has kept both me and my sister alive and safe for the last two years.

"You're thinking too loudly," Anatoly murmurs, his eyes never leaving the hallway ahead.

"Better than saying something I'll regret."

His lips curl into that half-smile that's. "Why do I get the feeling what you regret saying will be what I want to hear the most?"

And there it is. He disarms me again without even trying. How does he keep managing to reach past all my defenses so easily? How is he peeling back my layers when I've spent years making sure no one could?

The quills of my porcupine are retracting, and leave me exposed in ways I haven't been since before everything fell apart. Soon I'll have nothing left to protect myself with.

Both from him and from myself.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," I whisper.

"Like what?"

"Like you want to understand me."

His fingers tighten around mine. "Is that what scares you, Indigo? That I might understand you?"

Yes.

Because understanding means vulnerability. Vulnerability means risk. And I've risked enough already with this man who still terrifies me even as he draws me closer.

And I'm not prepared for what happens when those walls come down completely.

"Where exactly are we getting married?" I ask, trying to distract myself from his touch.

Anatoly's lips curve just slightly. "Would you like to see?"

I nod.

He guides me outdoors, his fingers loosening just enough but never leaving mine as we cross the manicured lawn toward the property's edge. As we approach the cliff overlooking the ocean, I spot several men erecting an elegant white arch, and adorning it in cascading white and pale pink flowers.

"It's smaller than I expected," I say honestly.

And it's the truth. For some reason, I imagined that a wedding to Anatoly is supposed to take place in a grand ballroom with soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers, where the sound of the hundreds of guests buzzing like a swarm of hornets.

I expected every table to be decked out with multiple bottles of imported vodka and custom silverware.

All while men with guns under their jackets stand at every exit, eyes constantly scanning for threats.

And around us, women draped in diamonds whispering about the strange American girl who caught Anatoly's eye.

Not this. Not something so small and intimate.

The ocean crashes against the rocks below, and I pull in a lungful of salty spray.

"Are you disappointed?" His voice is softer than I've ever heard before.

"No." I confess. "It's better this way."

His mouth opens as if he wants to know why, but then he thinks better of it and lets me keep my thoughts to myself.

Movement catches my eye and I turn my head in time to see someone walking down the manicured lawn toward us.

When he gets closer, I recognize him as the driver from yesterday—the same one who was laughing with Anatoly as we drove away from New York.

There's an angry red mark on his face that looks suspiciously like a handprint.

He gives me only an acknowledging look, says something to Anatoly in Russian, and hands over something small that glints gold in the sunlight.

Then, he gives me another nod, turns around, and starts walking away.

"What was that about?" I ask Anatoly.

Anatoly slips whatever he received into his pocket. "I sent my brother Roma to retrieve our family signet ring from our mother."

"Your brother?" I can't help asking.

As I watch Roma's fading figure, I can see the resemblance. They have the same piercing blue eyes, a similar height and build, but where Anatoly's hair is a dark whiskey brown, Roma's hair is streaked with blond.

And in spite of their similarities, Roma's face seemed softer somehow, like he's more used to having an open expression than Anatoly's carefully controlled mask.

"Yes." Anatoly nods. "I'm the oldest of three. Me, Roma, and Vassily."

"And you said you sent him to retrieve the family signet ring?"

"I did."

By now, Roma has almost reached the mansion.

"I'm guessing your mother disapproves of this marriage? Judging by the imprint she left on Roma's face."

Anatoly's eyebrows raise slightly. "There's no secret that you can't see, is there?"

"Isn't that why you're marrying me?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Because like you said, you’re not marrying me for love."

Once again, he opens his mouth as if to say something back. And once again, he thinks better of it, even as his hand continues to cradle mine with that unexpected tenderness.