Page 27 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

The hatred in Valentina’s gray eyes do not dissipate. She looks at me with a sharpness that makes me feel like I'm naked in front of her even underneath Anatoly’s heavy jacket. Without thinking, my hand moves to pull the jacket closer around.

"Now," she says once my back is to the corner and I'm flanked by two cold unfeeling walls, "tell me why my son is marrying you."

"He chose me." The only thing I can offer her is the truth.

The simplest truth rather than the whole truth. But still the truth.

"Do you take me to be a fool?" Her eyes rake over my blue hair with undisguised contempt and lingers on my skin. "Trash like you don't belong with my son. Now tell me the truth. Why is he marrying you?"

The truth? She wants the truth? Does she want me to admit to her that I'm marrying her son because he forced me to? Or does she want me to tell her what she wants to hear—that I'm just another gold-digging whore who caught her son's attention.

"I am telling you the truth, Valentina Ivanovna," I say, recalling the way Svetlana combined my name with my father's, and remembering the way Anatoly addressed her earlier. "Your son chose me for a reason. I'm sorry he didn't share that reason with you."

If using her name in that way is supposed to make her hate me a little bit less, then it's backfired. Valentina's eyes narrow further and she takes a step towards me.

"Don't you ever let my name touch your disgusting lips again." She stabs my chest with a claw-like finger. "You filthy whore."

I want to keep backing away, but there's nowhere left to go. My chest rises and falls, and the tip of her finger starts to dig through the fabric of Anatoly’s suit jacket and into my skin.

In a moment of desperation, I try to glance past her shoulder, but she notices and grabs my chin between her fingers to force my gaze back to her.

"Ponimayesh menya, suka?" Nails dig into my face as she snarls.

Again, I don't need to understand those words to understand their meaning and her hatred.

I nod, and she lets a look of satisfaction cross her face briefly as she digs her nails deeper. Pain sends unwilling tears up in my eyes, but I don't dare make a sound.

“Take off that jacket, whore,” she commands. “I want to see just what my son is so intent on hiding from me.”

My mouth goes dry and my hands remain clasped around the lapel of the jacket. I don’t want to take it off. I don’t want her to see the mutilated dress that I’m wearing. What had been an act of defiance has now become a mistake that I’m starting to regret.

“Now,” she hisses.

Then, as if to reinforce her message, her grip tightens.

The sharp tips of her nails are digging into my cheeks, and I can't stop the whimper of pain that escapes my throat.

Slowly, I reach up with trembling fingers, undo the protective armor that is Anatoly’s jacket, and let it fall from my shoulders.

Cold air wraps around my exposed skin, and I see the disbelief and anger building up more and more in Valentina’s eyes as she takes in my appearance.

Her grip tightens, and I’m afraid that she’s about to break skin.

“Where are you from?” she asks quietly.

A wave of nausea churns in my belly. And suddenly, I feel like I’m back at that Columbia academic committee hearing after that awful summer, when they demanded to know why my academic performance suffered without ever giving me a reason to truly defend myself about what had happened.

And like that committee, Valentina already made up her mind about who and what I am. All that’s happening now is a ritual in humiliation.

“The Bronx,” I answer truthfully.

She makes a face like I might as well have spat on her shoes.

“And what was the price for you to spread your legs for him, little whore from the Bronx?”

I want to scream at her that I haven’t done anything to her precious son. That it’s him who has been doing everything to me. That all I want is to go home and resume my life as just another faceless ordinary person.

But I don’t, and she takes my silence as confession.

“Not only a whore, but a cheap one too,” she says. “You must be good, for him to choose you over his real fiancée."

His… what?

My eyes widen at that word, and those hateful gray eyes miss nothing. Triumph crosses Valentina's face, and she yanks my chin up so that I can’t look away.

"Oh.” A savage smile widens on her face. “Did my Tolya fail to tell you that, little whore?"

"No." the word tumbles out.

"And you didn't think to ask?"

Ask? It's not like I had a choice when he freaking kidnapped me! It's not like I had a choice when he marched me into a room and told me that I'm to marry him. I'm just as lost as you!

But none of those words come out. Not that they'll help me. Not that she’ll believe me.

"So I’ll ask again. Why did he marry you, whore?" she hisses. "My Tolya doesn't do anything without calculation."

"I'm telling you the truth," I repeat myself, "Anatoly chose me. If you want to know why, you need to ask him directly."

Her gray eyes bore into mine with chilling clarity. But I’m determined to stand my ground no matter how much this woman scares me.

"If you have any sense of self-preservation, you’ll find a way to get the fuck out of my house." Her lips curl into a cruel smile. "Because right now, the consequence for your behavior is just a trip back to whatever hole you crawled out of. But the longer you stay, the worse things will get."

I know those words are supposed to scare me into revealing the truth to her. But I also know that the consequence for honesty is never just a trip home.

God knows I learned that lesson the hard way.

There's a steep cost to be paid for telling the truth, especially the truth about powerful people. And someone will always pay a price that they're not willing to pay.

I have no intention of doing it again.

"You're either very brave or very stupid." She looks at me, those gray eyes of hers searching my hazel ones for weakness and lies. "We'll see which one it is soon enough, little whore from the Bronx."

But just then, we both hear the sound of commotion outside of the door. The sounds of men yelling in Russian, and what sounds like the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.

Then, the door suddenly swings open, and I hear the sound of Anatoly’s voice, shaking with unmistakable anger.

“Get your hands off my wife!”

Valentina’s hand release me instantly at the sound of Anatoly’s voice, and she turns around to glare at him as I lift a trembling hand to my cheek. The indentation her nails left behind throb with a dull ache when I touch them, but when I pull my fingers away, there’s no blood.

This isn't the first time she did this to someone, I think.

I glance up and see that chaos has unfolded on the other side of the door while Valentina was interrogating me.

Vassily sits there beside a pool of blood, his face a mess of red. Roma crosses his arms and there’s a look of disapproval as he looks down at his younger brother. Several guards stand there, and they immediately avert their eyes when they see me.

And then I see Anatoly.

His face is twisted in fury and there’s blood on the knuckles of his right hand. Valentina looks at her three sons. Her mouth opens when she sees Vassily, and she turns to glare at Anatoly in anger.

But Anatoly crosses the threshold into the room, shoulders his way past her, and brings his jacket around my shoulders again.

His fingers—the ones unblemished with Vassily’s blood—brush the indentations his mother’s nails have left on my face, and I can feel the rage in his blood boiling just a little hotter. He hooks a gentle finger under my chin and tilt me up so that I might look at him.

“Did she do this to you?” he asks, doing his best to keep his even.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Valentina shooting daggers at me with her cold gray eyes as she kneels down by Vassily and cradles his bloodied face, whispering words that nobody else can hear.

Instead of feeling the warmth from Anatoly’s gentle touch, all I can think about is what she said about Anatoly having a real fiancée. A girl that deserves him.

And the moment I think about that, I feel anger and jealousy warring for control in my heart.

Anger at the fact that he didn't tell me. And jealousy at the thought that she might still be the one that'll get to have him.

“Printsessa.” Anatoly traces the marks on my face and calls my attention back to him. “Did she do this to you?”

And even though I know that I shouldn’t, I nod.

His eyes freeze over, and he presses a soft gentle kiss on my forehead as he draws the jacket tighter around me.

Then, he turns to face his family, and all the warmth he’s shown to me disappears from his face.

“Get out.” His voice is terrifyingly calm, despite the tension I can see in his shoulders. “All of you.”

“Excuse me?” Valentina seems aghast as she stands up, one hand still caressing Vassily’s bloody cheek. “What did you say to me, Tolya?”

He draws himself up to his full height and steps into her space, forcing her to retreat. He doesn’t stop until her heel slips just a little in the smear of blood that Vassily left on the ground.

“You dare to come into my house, insult my wife, and hurt her.” He can’t hold back the anger seeping into his rising voice. “I want all of you out! Now!”

“Look what you did to my Vasya!” Valentina’s voice shakes with disbelief. “You would choose this whore over your own family?”

“She is my wife!” he roars. “She wears my ring. She will bear our name. She will represent our bratva to the world. And you will show her the respect that her title demands, or you will have no seat at my table, no place in this bratva, and nowhere in the world where you will be safe! Is that understood, Valentina Ivanovna?”

“You impudent brat!” Her hand rises again.

Anatoly clenches her wrist in his own hand and squeezes until she winces.

“If you touch me like that again.” His voice turns into ice. “If you touch my wife like that again.” He turns and looks at me, and at the indentations on my face before he turns back to her. “And if I hear you call her a whore like that again, I will kill you where you stand.”

“I am your mother!”

“And I am your pakhan, Valentina Ivanovna.” He shakes her wrist. “Never forget that.”

She stares back at him but says nothing back. For the first time, I see a crack in her prefect composure.

“Very well, Anatoly Stepanovich,” she finally says. “I will obey your words. But I wish to give you a warning.”

“I suggest you choose your words very carefully.”

“The Volkovs will hear about this, and Taras Volkov will not be happy to know who you have chosen in place of his daughter. You have brought an outsider into our walls, and there will be a day when she will come to hate you, as every pakhan’s wife comes to hate her husband.”

Anatoly stands perfectly still, his hand still tight around his mother’s wrist.

“I pray for your sake, and for our bratva’s sake,” she continues. “That when that day comes, she will not lead to the ruin of our bratva.”

“Your concern has been noted, Valentina Ivanovna,” he replies as he releases her wrist. “Now get the fuck out.”

Valentina inclines her proud head slightly to acknowledge his command, and then turns around to leave.

Her shoulders remain impossibly straight, and the muscles in her jaw are clenched so tight that I'm surprised her teeth haven’t cracked.

She doesn't even bother looking back at me or at what she’s done to me.

And if I’m being honest, I’m fine with that. I hope I never have to see her again, or even be in the same room as her.

Vassily picks himself up from the floor, his movement unsteady as another few errant drops fall from his face. He steals a glance at me, but then shrivels back when he sees Anatoly glaring at him.

Roma is the last to leave. Unlike the other two, there's no hostility in his expression. Only a soft and quiet resignation.

"Congratulations on your marriage," he says. “To both of you.”

Then, he follows after his family, and leaves me alone with Anatoly.