Page 23 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

THREE DAYS LATER

I step out of the shower, and immediately, I know something is different.

Nothing seems out of place at first glance, but I feel like someone was just in here while I was in the shower. Wrapping the towel more closely around my body, I pace around the room and examine the door knob.

It doesn’t look like it’s been touched. But then again, what do I know?

Memories of the other night and my private surrender rushes back, and I wonder if maybe Anatoly heard me.

I glance up at the red light blinking on top of the window. Svetlana told me that this was an alarm. But what if it isn’t? What if it’s a camera? What if he was watching me touch myself while thinking of him?

A blush runs up my cheeks, and I find my mind bombarded with images of Anatoly watching me on a screen with his cock in his fist.

Fuck!

I shake my head, take several deep breaths to calm myself, and walk towards the closet.

That’s when I realize that someone was in here.

Because instead of the panoply of clothes that had been brought up yesterday, everything has been replaced with beautiful dresses.

Only beautiful dresses.

Different shade of blues, greens, and reds. And even one black as midnight.

"What the hell is this?" I mutter, tugging at one dress after another.

All in my size. All perfect. All chosen with careful attention to what would flatter me.

For him.

A surge of heat burns through me.

Is this his way of punishing me for dressing up like I did last night? He straight up told me that he noticed me picking the most unflattering outfit. So now is he removing that option for me?

I pick a silky blue dress off the rack and hold it against myself in the mirror. It does look good on me. And I hate that it looks so good on me.

"Fuck you, Anatoly," I whisper to my reflection, tossing the dress aside.

I won't be his dress-up doll. I won't be grateful for gilded chains. But as I look at the scattered clothes on my bed, I realize something even more infuriating. I'll have to wear them anyway.

Because what choice do I really have?

I grab the most expensive dress—a delicate cream silk gown with a modest neckline—and spread it out on my bed.

"You want me to play dress up for you, Tolya? Fine." I mutter, picking up a pair of scissors from the vanity drawer.

I make the first cut—a decisive slice right up the side seam, far higher than any decent hem. The sound of tearing silk sends a thrill through me. I cut again, this time at the neckline, transforming the modest scoop into a plunging V that reminds me of my wedding dress.

I grab another dress, and resume my rampage. Cutting, tearing, and modifying each pristine garment into something inappropriate and. A measure of my defiance even if there’s a part of me that knows he probably doesn’t give a shit if I choose to dress as skimpily as I can.

I'm halfway through another cut when I feel the weight of someone's gaze.

I spin around, scissors still in hand, and catch Svetlana leaning against the doorframe. Her arms are crossed and she looks down at the strips of fabric in amusement.

"How long have you been there?" I demand, heat crawling up my neck.

"Long enough." Her eyes flick from my face to the massacre of designer clothing. "This is not a good idea, Indigo Malcolmovna."

I turn back to my destruction. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You have ears, silly girl. But I’ll say it again.” Svetlana walks in, picks up a shredded pink dress, and smirks. “This is not a good idea. Anatoly expects you downstairs in three hours."

I scoff. "I don't care."

"As you say." She drops the blouse. "Don't let me stop you."

I do my best to ignore her and stare at the clothing chaos I've created. Something about Svetlana's words nags at me. She knows something, but she also knows that there’s no way for her to convince me to stop.

So, I push the feeling aside, and walk over to the closet until I find a sewing kit. Grabbing a needle and thread, I start to work, carefully stitching the ruined cream dress back together.

My hands move quickly through the fabric, making tiny, precise stitches. The last two years of practice have made me efficient, and slowly, the torn silk transform into something deliberately provocative rather than simply damaged.

I'm focused so intently on my work that I almost forget Svetlana's still watching me.

"Your needlework is impressive," she says finally, breaking the silence. "Where did you learn to sew like that?"

I don't look up from my stitches. "Necessity."

"What kind of necessity?"

I tie off a knot and cut the thread with my teeth. "My sister and I couldn't afford new clothes every time something ripped or wore through, so I had to learn how to fix things up, and do it fast."

There’s no point in keeping that part a secret from her. If there’s one person here other than Anatoly who might know everything about me, it’s probably Svetlana.

She steps closer, examining my handiwork with genuine interest. Her usual stoic expression softens slightly.

"You have a good heart, Indigo Malcolmovna. Even if your head is sometimes too headstrong for your own good."

I finally look up at her, needle paused mid-stitch. "I don't need you worrying about me."

"Someone has to." Svetlana steps closer and sits down on the bed beside me

Her words hit too close to home, and stirs something uncomfortable in my chest. I swallow hard, focusing on the next stitch.

"Tell me about your sister.”

My hands freeze mid-stitch. "There’s nothing to tell."

"People say that.” She waves her hand lazily in the air. “But they’re almost always lying when they do. You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you be?” I retort. “She’s all I have left in this world, and she has no idea where I am or if I’m okay. Anatoly still has my phone so I can’t even reach out to her if I wanted to.”

“There you go again, silly girl, forgetting who and what you are now.” Svetlana nods.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your hand, please.”

Confused, I let go of the needle and reach out with my right.

“Your other hand.”

I extend my left, and that’s when I catch sight of the wedding ring shimmering in the morning light. “Oh…”

Svetlana smiles, and this time, it looks genuine. “You’re a pakhan’s wife now. So act like one.”

I sigh. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to say? It’s too early for me to try and figure out riddles.”

"I can check on your sister for you. From a distance, of course. And discreetly." Her lips curl slightly. "Far more discreet than any man that your husband might send."

I set the needle down slowly and consider her offer. Amara is all alone right now, probably frantic with worry. And I doubt that Anatoly would be willing to give me back my phone before the gala.

"But why would you do that for me?" I ask.

"Because you are the pakhan’s wife.” Svetlana shrugs. "And maybe I have a soft heart for someone who spends more time worrying about others than herself."

I study her face, looking for deception. But all I see is that same guarded competence I've come to recognize.

"And Anatoly wouldn't know?"

"I’m your personal guard, not his. What you choose to order me to do, so long as it does not interfere with the affairs of the Bratva, is your business and your business alone. Never forget that."

The thought of having someone watching over Amara, and making sure she's safe while I'm trapped here. It's tempting, alright. Too tempting to refuse.

"Okay," I say finally. "But just watch, okay? Don't approach her. Don't let her know she's being followed. And tell me if she needs something."

"I will, Indigo Malcolmovna." Svetlana nods. "I'll make sure she's safe. Nothing more."

I hesitate, then add, "Thank you."

Svetlana gives me one long, appraising look before standing. She says nothing else as she turns and walks toward the door. Before she leaves, she pauses, and glances back over her shoulder. Not at me, but at the mess of altered clothes spread across my bed, as a smile ghosts across her face again.

Then she's gone.

The door closes quietly behind her, and I’m left alone with nothing but a pile of expensive fabric and my defiance to keep me company.

I turn back to my little rebellion, and put on the final touches to my alterations before I put the dress on in front of the mirror.

The cream silk clings to every curve, leaving almost nothing to the imagination even as the skirt manages to hide the scars on my thigh. I turn slowly, assessing my handiwork.

It's technically still a dress, but only in the most generous interpretation of the word.

Will Anatoly’s jaw tighten when he sees me in this? Will those piercing blue eyes darken? Will he be furious? Turned on? Both?

Part of me—a dangerous, reckless part I should probably ignore, especially after last night—shivers at the thought of his reaction. That part of me is cackling in delight at the thought that I might able to incite that kind of a reaction from him.

I smooth my hands over the material, feeling powerful for the first time since I was brought to this mansion. This dress is a challenge.

A declaration that I won't be controlled, not even by the man who now calls me wife.

And when he sees this, I wonder what new nickname he'll call me.

Printsessa? Britvochka?

Or something else?

Something inappropriate?