Page 19 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

I’m still sitting against the window in my wedding dress by the time the sun starts sinking in the distant sky.

On my bed, a pile of neatly folded clothes sits there, having been brought up not long after Anatoly left.

My heartbeat hasn’t returned to a semblance of normalcy yet. And my knees still feel like they’re made of rubber when I try to stand.

I’ve been sitting against the window for six fucking hours.

Six hours since he left me moaning and crying out from a pleasure that I haven’t dared to indulge myself in.

Six hours since he stared up at me like I’m a goddess to whom he kneels in supplication at the altar.

Six hours since he almost won.

Six hours and I still can’t stop thinking about how fucking good he made me feel.

And how much I want him to do it again.

I spare a look outside and see stars beginning to wink into existence in the darkening sky. I’ll have to go downstairs to join him for dinner soon, and I get the feeling that if I stay in this wedding dress, he’s definitely going to win.

Fuck that.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself up to shaky knees and take one hesitant step after another until I stand in front of my bed and look down at the pile of clothes.

The maid sorted them by formality. There are a number of elaborate and elegant evening gowns and cocktail dresses.

But there are also plenty of casual wear.

Blouses. T-shirts. Even a few pairs of comfy sweatpants.

It’s like Anatoly wasn’t sure what he wants to dress me up in, so he decided that he might as well give me all the fucking options.

Slowly, I shimmy out of my wedding dress, pick up a cream-colored T-shirt, and put it on.

It fits perfectly, because of course it fucking does.

I almost start wondering how this is possible before I remember that Anatoly literally had a team of seamstresses take my every measurement yesterday.

Jesus, six hours later and I still can’t think right.

Amazing what your brain can forget after a dangerous bratva pakhan just ate you out against the glass window.

Glancing down at the pile again, I choose the sweatpants over the other elegant clothes. I want something where I can feel like me again. But the whole time I’m putting them on, my mind can’t stop wondering what he’s going to wear to dinner.

And how he’ll react when he sees me like this.

Silence swallows us in the large dining room. Crystal chandeliers refract light across polished silverware and porcelain plates while staff move between us like ghosts, placing one steaming dish after another on the table before disappearing.

Anatoly sits at the opposite end—thank God—and unfolds his napkin with practiced grace. If he’s disappointed in the choice of clothing I’ve picked for dinner, he’s doing a damn good job of not showing it.

In fact, he hasn’t looked at me once since I sat down.

And he certainly doesn’t acknowledge what just happened upstairs six hours ago.

I should stop looking at him, but I can’t stop myself from studying his every motion with utter fascination.

His hair is back to being perfectly styled without a single strand out of place. His blue eyes watch intently as a staff pours him a glass of wine. And when it reaches the height he wants, he gives a lazy flick with his large hand, picks up the glass, and takes a slow sip.

The wine glass returns to the table, and his tongue darts out to lick away a drop of red clinging to his lips.

Then, and only then, does his piercing blue eyes glance at me. The corner of his mouth tugs up ever so slightly.

Suddenly, I can feel his mouth between my legs again. The wet heat of his tongue against my throbbing clit and slick folds. The strength of his fingers pushing my legs open and the unexpected tenderness of his touch when they brush the scars on my thighs.

And his voice, deep and low, rumbling with every word.

“When I find out who he is, I will give you his hands.”

My thighs squeeze together beneath the table, and I feel my underwear growing damp from an embarrassingly familiar wetness. My fingers tighten around the knife and fork in my hands, and I force myself to breathe slowly and evenly as heat walks up my neck, my cheeks, and my ears.

“What’s so funny?” I force the words out at him.

“Yuliya asked you if you would like some wine.” He tilts his chin to my right and I look up and see the young woman standing there with a bottle ready to pour.

How long has she been there? When did she even ask? Had I been so taken by Anatoly’s every move that I can’t even hear anymore?

“Um, yes. Just a bit. If you don’t mind.” I nod at the woman, and she starts pouring.

A few moments later, the staff bows and shuffles out of the room, and I’m left alone with Anatoly.

“After you, printsessa.” He puts down his knife and gestures with his hand.

I look down at the food in front of me.

The steak before me is perfectly seared and still pink in the middle. Any other time, I'd be salivating. Now, my stomach starts twisting itself into shapes I didn’t think were possible as I look at it.

And he expects me to just eat after what we just did?

My hands don’t move, and I steal a glance at Anatoly.

"I'm not hungry." The lie slips out easily enough.

And then my body betrays me again, and my stomach rumbles loudly enough for him to cock a single eyebrow up.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

No, the food is fine. It’s the fact that I can’t take a bite without thinking about your mouth between my legs.

Instead, I push the perfectly cooked steak around my plate and tell him, "I'm just not used to dining with a criminal."

Anatoly's face hardens. The man who’d just made me come apart upstairs disappears, and now I find myself staring at the dangerous pakhan who'd killed three men in front of me without hesitation.

But maybe I prefer that. Because the former, I don’t know how I can deal with. But the latter?

I can handle the latter.

"Is that what really troubles you?" His carries an edge. "That I'm a criminal?"

I lift my chin. "Aren’t you?"

Anatoly picks up his knife and starts cutting his steak. His movement is controlled and deliberate as he works.

“You’re lying, printsessa,” he says. “I know you’re lying because I know that you haven’t been able to stop thinking about what we just did, same as me. It’s why you picked the most unflattering outfit possible for dinner.”

He glances at me briefly and my breath halts in my throat. Then, he returns to sawing at the steak in front of him.

“You picked it because you think that if you make yourself look unflattering, it means that I won’t want to strip it all away and repeat what we did.

” He brings the meat to his lips, chews and swallows, before he continues.

“You think that if you can just hide your scars, I won’t want to ask about them. ”

My hand tightens around the knife and fork as he lays his down.

“And you’d be wrong.”

He pushes himself back from the table, chair scraping against the floor, and draws himself up to his full commanding height. Then, he starts walking towards me. Each step is slow and deliberate, and my heart starts thumping in my chest again the closer he gets.

My grip on the knife shifts and I flip it so that I can bring it down on him if I have to.

But if that’s meant to deter him, it does the exact opposite. The smile on Anatoly's face widens as he stops in front of me. His cologne mingles with the lingering scent of me that still clings to his lips.

"Are you trying to draw my blood a fourth time, wife?"

His voice is barely above a whisper, but I feel it reverberate through me.

"I was thinking about it, yeah."

"In that case," he says. "Do your fucking worst."

I breathe. The knife rises. And plunges towards his black heart.

But he's faster than me. He's always been faster than me. He avoids the blade easily enough. Then, in the same motion, five powerful fingers wrap around my fist.

Before I realize what's happening, he's turned me around until my back is pressed against him. His heat blankets me as his fist envelopes mine.

Then, as if to complete his mastery over me, he slams the knife—blade first—down into the table, and drive it into the hard wood without ever letting me go.

His free hand fists in my hair. Once. Twice. Until I can feel every root tugging against my scalp.

His lips brush my ear. “You don’t trust me. Even though I gave you my word.”

“The words of a criminal.”

He leans in even closer, and I swear I can hear both our hearts pounding in the ever-shrinking space between us.

"I may be a criminal, Indigo, but I'm an honest criminal. There are men out there who hide behind suits and smiles and promises of doing good while they do terrible things to those they consider lesser.”

I know. God, I know.

Gravity shifts and suddenly I find myself being bent over the table. My chest makes contact with the hard surface and air is driven from my lungs. The knife between us feels like a conduit, reminding me that even though I'm holding the weapon, he controls all the power.

“I don’t hide who and what I am,” he says. “I never have. Not with you. And when I told you that I won’t fuck you until you beg for it, I mean it."

"Then what the fuck is this?" I snarl.

His chuckle vibrates against my shoulder as he presses closer until I feel him throbbing behind me. "I believe some would call this restraint."

Something inside me responds to his word. To my shock, I find myself shifting against him, my body starts wriggling against his, not in useless struggle but as if seeking closer contact. The movement is subtle but unmistakable.

His grip tightens.

A bolt of panic shoots through me. What am I doing?

"If I were a lesser man, printsessa." Anatoly's dark chuckle rumbles against my back, his breath warm against my ear. "I'd call that begging."

The smugness in his voice snaps me back to reality. I try to still my movements but my body is screaming for his touch despite my mind's protest.