Page 21 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

ANATOLY

Her delicate fingers wrap around mine, and the pulse in her neck beats delicately beneath her skin. There’s impossible fragility about her. But there’s also that quiet understated strength that I know she’s more than capable of.

A single tear clings to the corner of her eye, and I fight the urge to brush it away. Something I don’t want to acknowledge stirs in my chest as I look at her soft features.

And I wait.

The silence settles between us, heavy with whatever burden she still carries. I should care only about what I can use against Bennet, but it seems so inconsequential now.

Not after the tiny confession from her that her parents are dead because of Bennet. My mind drifts to the thought of those scars on her thighs. A man didn’t put those on her. She did it to herself.

All because of Bennet. I’m sure of that.

And like clockwork, rage begins boiling beneath my surface, and I continue looking at her and waiting for her.

When she finally speaks, her voice is whisper quiet.

"A few weeks after I finished my internship at Mayor Bennet's office, a pair of police officers came to our home." Her fingers tighten around mine. "They arrested my father Malcolm on charges that made no sense. Drug possession. Grand theft auto. Conspiracy to kill a police officer."

"What happened next?" It’s getting hard to keep my voice controlled, but I do it for her.

"They beat him to death in an interrogation room." Her voice breaks slightly.

My jaw clenches.

"Two weeks later, my mother Claire was killed on her way home from work." Her eyes rise to meet mine, dry but haunted. "The police closed the case in less than a day. Said it was just a hit and run. Then they cremated her body before I ever got a chance to see her."

Her words set my blood burning with the kind of rage that usually ends with bodies in the streets. I've killed for business, for power, for respect.

But not this.

"Names." My voice comes out sharp enough to make her flinch. I loosen my grip on her hands, but I don't let go. "I want names."

"I don't know their names.” Indigo shakes her head, eyes downcast.

"Can you identify them if you see their face?” I wait until those hazel eyes meet mine.

"Yes."

“Then I’ll find them for you.”

“How?”

“There must be an arrest warrant on file for your father. I have men in the NYPD who can get those records without raising flags.”

“And my mother?”

“If what you’ve told me is the truth, and if Bennet ordered your parents’ deaths to intimidate you into silence, it’ll be the same men who covered up her death as well. Fewer hands. Fewer leaks.”

She stares at me, and I can practically see the thoughts turning her head. Her fingers continue to stroke my hand by her neck. Then, she gives me a nod.

A savage satisfaction surges through me.

But now, one final question burns on my tongue, one I need to know the answer to. Not for the blackmail plan. Not for anything practical. But for understanding the woman I've married.

"When I do find them." I hold her gaze, watching for any hesitation. “Do you want them dead, Indigo?”

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Doesn't look away.

"Yes."

One word. No tremor in her voice. No doubt in her eyes.

A dark approval uncoils inside of me. I've seen many people pretend or shy away from the angry violence inherent in themselves. But Indigo isn't pretending. This is real. She won’t be satisfied with fantasies of revenge or threats. She wants the real thing.

Justice. The kind that’s cold and permanent.

I lift my hand away from her neck, and her hand follows until it rests just in front of my face. Then, I press my lips to her knuckles. "Consider them dead men walking."

A storm of emotions flicker across her face, and she’s never looked more beautiful than this exact moment. Nothing but raw honesty in her hatred and anger. No pretense. No games.

Just pure, undiluted wrath.

"And is there anything else that you might want, printsessa?” I start, my voice soft now.

Indigo's expression shifts. The question seems to surprise her, as if she never considered having options beyond their deaths. She stares at our intertwined hands by my lips and her breathing quickens.

Her teeth catch her bottom lip. Her hazel eyes look away briefly. Almost as if she’s not sure if she dares to say what she truly wants.

Finally, her eyes meet mine again, and a new harsh determination burns behind them.

"I want to look them in the eyes when you take their lives."

I exhale, and realize I’d been holding my breath in anticipation of her answer.

And of all the things she could’ve said, this certainly wasn't the one I expected. Most people want the comfort of distance. They want the satisfaction of knowing that justice—even if it’s vigilante justice—was served without needing to witness the messy details.

Not Indigo.

She wants to watch. To bear witness. To make sure they know exactly why they're dying.

She wants them to hurt.

My wife is full of surprises.

"You're sure?" I ask, needing her certainty. "Watching a man die isn't something you can unsee."

"I am sure." Her voice doesn't waver. "I want them to know that they’re going to die because of me."

I nod slowly. She wants closure.

"Then you will," I promise, bringing our joined hands to my lips once more. "When I find them—and I will find them—you'll be there. You'll look into their eyes as they realize who you are and why they're dying."

She blinks, and finally, the tear that hangs at the edge of her lashes rolls down her cheek. It draws a long clear line down her face, but her eyes remain just as fierce as before. Because this is the first real promise of justice she's heard since her parents were taken from her.

"Consider it my wedding gift to you," I add. "Every bride deserves something special on her wedding day."

Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing. The unexpected kindness—if arranging murder can be considered kind—has caught her off-guard.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Simple words, but heavy with meaning. Perhaps the first genuine gratitude she's offered since I brought her here.

I release Indigo's hands, noticing how she hesitates before letting go. The spark of vengeance in her eyes transforms her, and makes her dangerous in a way that awakens something primal within me.

I reach for her face and wipe away the tear that now collects at the point of her chin, letting my thumb brush her bottom lip before I pull away. She freezes at the unexpected tenderness and her eyes widen. The soft light of the room swims in those hazel-green depths.

She's still processing everything. The wedding, what happened in her bedroom, these promises of vengeance. And now this unexpected gentleness.

"My britvochka," I say softly.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"Little blade," I translate, seeing her surprise.

"I thought I was your printsessa," she says.

"You still are." I lean back in my chair. "But you are also far more dangerous than any princess."