Page 20 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

"But that isn't begging.” He leans in and his lips brush my ear with every word. “Wriggling your hips doesn't count."

His hand releases my hair and finds the flat space between my shoulder blades. The weight presses me into the table until every part of my body, from my tightening nipples to my sensitive skin becomes all too aware of the hard unfeeling surface.

He grips the back of my neck and an unpleasant memory starts clawing from the depth of my mind. My heart beats so fast against my throat that I swear it’ll leap out of my mouth.

But what disturbs me is the knowledge that my heart isn’t racing from fear.

"When you beg, I don’t want to hear it." His voice drops lower. "I want to feel the need in your voice."

I swallow. Me too.

"Because I won’t be satisfied with fucking you in that sweet dripping cunt I tasted earlier."

“I want to fuck you.” His hand pulls away for a second before he jams a thick finger into the back of my head like a bullet. "Here."

I gasp and yelp at the sudden contact, and as rush of heat gushes through me.

The crude words shouldn't affect me, but they do. My underwear starts growing damper and I hope to God that he doesn’t notice, even if I’m sure he’s more than aware.

"I’ll never beg," I spit out.

His smile is predatory. "We'll see."

In one fluid motion, he pulls me up from the table. His foot hooks the nearby chair, swings it behind him, and he sits down, dragging me into his lap as he does so.

Hard wet heat pulses between us. And the first drop of apprehension starts snaking its way into my veins when I realize that there’s only a few thin pieces of fabric between me and his cock.

And even without seeing it, I know he’s fucking massive.

The knife remains in our joined hands as he takes my other hand in his to grab the fork.

"But now," he says. "You eat."

With surprising tenderness, he cuts a piece of my steak and brings it to my lips. I hesitate, then part my lips as he feeds me.

"Never forget that we are married for a purpose first and foremost, printsessa." He cuts another piece. "And our first test is in two weeks."

I chew slowly. "What’s in two weeks?"

"Mayor Bennet's fundraising gala." The smile reaches his voice as it rumbles against my back. "Where I intend to find out why he wanted you dead so badly that he reached out to every killer in New York to make it happen. Unless you want to tell me now and save both of us some time."

My body goes rigid and I twist my head to look at him, searching his face for what he might know already. But his eyes betray nothing, and I debate whether I can trust him with my secret.

"We're married now, printsessa." He brings another piece of steak into my mouth. "Your secrets are mine. Your burdens too."

“You don’t know anything about my secrets or burdens,” I reply through a mouthful of steak. “And you don’t get to have them.”

“I know enough.” He cuts another piece. “I know that you were a student at Columbia two years ago. I know that despite having two bedrooms in your apartment, you still choose to share the same bedroom with your sister while the other one stays empty with a layer of dust so thick you can choke on it from walking in. Everything in that space tells me that your parents didn’t just walk out on the two of you. ”

I draw my mouth into a line to stop him from feeding me another piece of steak, now suddenly nauseous at how easily he’s been able to peel back everything in the short time that he was in my home. He lowers the steak and his grip loosens slightly.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?”

I close my eyes, and force back the tears that threaten to leak from the corners. “Yes.”

"They’re dead because of Mayor Bennet, aren’t they?"

Yes, I think to myself. Because of Mayor Bennet.

But also because of me.

The weight of guilt crushes my chest as I sit there, trapped in Anatoly's lap, his arms strong and steady around me even though he’s no longer cutting up one piece of steak after another and feeding it to me.

He’s waiting for me.

My throat tightens. The answer is almost impossible to say, like it’ll tear me apart on its way out. But I can't keep running from it. I can’t keep hiding from it. Not with him.

"Yes."

"Why?" His voice is firm but gentle.

I shake my head, tears burning behind my closed eyelids.

He releases my hands. The knife and fork clatter to the table. Then, he turns me in his lap to face him. His hands cradle my face and I finally open my eyes to meet his.

I push against his chest, creating a small space between us. "You don’t want to know the real answers. Not really. You just want something that you can blackmail Bennet with."

His eyes narrow slightly, studying me with that calculating gaze that seems to strip away my defenses.

"Am I wrong?" I challenge him.

Anatoly's hand slides from my face to rest against my neck, his thumb tracing my pulse point. The gesture is intimate and possessive. And if this is any man other than him, I might feel like I’m in danger.

But because it’s him, I feel something else.

Safe.

"You’re not wrong," he admits.

Maybe it’s the simplicity of his acknowledgement, and the absolute lack of justifications that I expected to follow. Or maybe it’s the fact that his eyes continue to drill into mine, and I can see the glimmer of real concern swimming behind the glacier blue.

Or maybe it’s the fact that he has been honest with me ever since our paths crossed. From admitting that he came to the barbershop to kill me to this very moment when I press him for the truth.

And in some ways, it's comforting to know I'm just a means to an end because he's honest about it.

Not like everyone else.

I place my hand over his where it rests on my neck. "You don't need to know everything to get what you want."

"Perhaps not," Anatoly concedes, his gaze softening fractionally. "But I want to know enough."

The intensity in his voice makes me believe him, and that's more terrifying than any threat he's made. I glance down at the gold band circling my finger. The visible proof that for good or ill, I’m bound to this dangerous man.

No one has ever asked about what happened. Not really. Not in a way that made me want to answer.

Maybe Anatoly deserves to know some of it. Not everything. I'll never give anyone everything. But I can give him something.

A truth offered freely rather than taken by force.

I give him a tiny nod. “Okay, I’ll tell you. Not everything.”

“Not everything,” he agrees.

I take a slow, deep breath, steadying myself as the memories I've kept locked away for two years press against the corners of my mind.