Page 22 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

I can't sleep.

The silk sheets feel too smooth and foreign against my skin. I stare at the ceiling as moonlight spills through the curtains and casts shadows across the unfamiliar room.

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

Those words came from my mouth and in my voice. But they feel like they belonged to someone else. Someone I didn't know existed until yesterday.

Did I really say that to him? Did I really ask a dangerous man I barely know to kill for me?

Yes. I did.

And what terrifies me isn't that I asked. It's that I meant it.

I roll onto my side, curling my knees toward my chest. His hands had been so warm around mine, his grip firm and unyielding as he fed me. And how easily he coaxed out the monster that must’ve been there all along.

He listened and didn’t question. Didn’t judge. He just accepted it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I press my face into the pillow, muffling a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob.

If Anatoly actually delivers my parents' murderers to me, can I actually stare into their eyes while he ends their lives?

Yes. Yes, I would.

I roll onto my back and press my palms against my eyes. I want to remember every detail of the moment they realize they're paying for what they've done.

The more I think about it, the darker my thoughts become. It slithers deep into my soul, and coils around my neck until I can feel it choking out all thoughts other than the savage desire to see the light of life be snuffed out in those men’s eyes.

"Fuck." My eyes fly open at the thought.

I've spent two years rebuilding myself after that awful summer. Carefully constructing walls, keeping everyone at arm's length. Dying my hair blue, changing my name, and becoming someone new.

Someone who couldn't be hurt like before.

But in just a few days with Anatoly, he tore those walls down, and I find myself transforming into something that I’m not sure I want to.

His britvochka. His little blade.

He’s shown me just how much further I can keep falling. Because that’s what this is ultimately about, isn’t it?

I don’t want to fuck you just down there. I want to fuck you up here.

In just a few short days, without any provocation other than his presence alone, he’s managed to make me turn into a violent, savage thing. Something bloodthirsty enough to stand up against him. To draw his blood.

To demand him to kill so that I might watch.

He’s my husband in name. My captor in reality. And now… now he wants to be my dark avenger?

I can let him indulge me in my darkest fantasies and cruelest desires. That much I know for a fact.

But if I do, then I’ll be forever bound to him. I’ll have to always play by his rules. To let him toy with me and torment me with excruciating pleasure. To open myself to him and let him take whatever he wants until even this new identity—this blue haired Indigo Taylor—is erased too.

And would that be so bad?

At that thought, I can feel his mouth between my legs again. Feel his hands opening me further. See his eyes staring up at me from between my thighs as I was only seconds away from begging.

No!

My eyes fly open and I realize with embarrassment that my hands have moved—practically on their own accord—between my legs. One finger is already buried to the knuckle, and my clit aches for release as a ragged pant tumbles from my lips.

I pull my hand away, and immediately feel the ache of emptiness inside.

Tonight was proof enough of just how much power he has over me. Even with that knife in my hand, he’s still the one who holds all the power. But does it always have to be that way?

He can make my body respond to him, fine. He can make me want things I shouldn't want, okay.

But I can choose when I want to cede any more control over to him.

And even if he does deliver on giving me justice for my parents, I won't give him the satisfaction of complete surrender.

I will continue to resist him.

Marriage is one thing. But submission isn't part of the deal.

I won’t let him corrupt me.

And yet…

My eyes close and I can feel the heat of his body pressed against my back on that dining room table. He’d taken control from me, but he stopped right at the line that others have crossed so willingly.

I roll over and feel that irresistible heat wash over me as memory and fantasy start blurring together. My right hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of silken sheets, and I swear I can feel Anatoly’s hand wrapping tightly around it while his lips brush against my ear again.

I swear I can hear his zipper coming undone behind me.

Feel the heat of his cock throbbing between my legs.

My finger slips back inside of my wet and hungry pussy as I imagine him fucking me on that table. One hand tight around my fist and the other one yanking me by my hair. It’s dirty. It’s wrong. It’s the last fucking thing I should want but it’s also the only single thing I fucking need.

Snap out of it, Indigo. I tell myself as my hand moves faster and faster. You can’t indulge in this. You can’t be thinking about this right now!

I can’t let him fuck my head.

But he’s already there. I imagine his sweat dripping down from his brow and blossoming across my back. They sizzle each time they make contact with my fevered skin.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I bite down against the pillow to muffle one moan after another as they punch out from my throat. The sound of my own fingers moving between my slick folds and swollen clit echoes in the moonlight, wet and obscene.

And I don’t care.

I want it.

I want him.

I want him to claim me, break me, and shatter all of the walls that I’ve built up around myself so that I can reclaim what was taken from me. I want him to call me his printsessa as he buries himself to the hilt and fucks me without mercy.

I want him to bite down on my shoulder, my neck, my back as hard as I’m biting this pillow right now.

I want to feel him making me lose control.

Fuck me! Fuck me! PLEASE FUCK ME!

When I come, I fucking shatter.

Pleasure sends me lurching forward into the headboard.

My face buries in the pillow as I shriek in time with my orgasm pulsing from the depth of my core.

Toes curl. Legs shake. Sweat plasters my hair to my face.

Tiny aftershocks of pleasure continue to burst through me as I pull out my finger and collapse against the soft bed.

A pathetic whimper falls from my quivering lips as I lay there, panting from the temporary relief.

But it’s not enough. And until I get the real thing, I don’t think it’ll ever be enough.

By the time my breathing returns to a normal cadence, I feel the familiar tendrils of shame snaking its way through me.

And that’s when I know the terrible truth.

I’ve already given him total control over me.

He’s already fucked me in my head.

And he knows it’s only a matter of time before I confess it.