Page 3 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

“You sure you’ll be alright closing up on your own, Indie?” My boss Marcus Jackson asks me as he looks back at me from the door of the barbershop.

“I’ll be fine, Marcus,” I tell him. “You know Mrs. Diaz can’t unload those boxes on her own.”

“Okay,” he grunts. “Just don’t forget to hit the lights on your way out. ConEd is jacking up prices again.”

I smile at him. “I got it, Marcus. It’s not the first time I’ve had to close up.”

He raises an eyebrow as if he doesn’t believe me. Then, he gives me a slight nod, and steps out from the door, leaving me by myself with nothing but the worn vinyl flooring and a re-run of El Senor de los Cielos on Telemundo from the tiny TV hanging in the corner as company.

I know Marcus is worried about letting me close up on my own.

It’s not because he doesn’t trust me to do a good job. It’s because he still remembers the first time he met me.

That was two years ago when I was still coming to terms the trauma of everything that took place that awful summer. It was also the same time that I lost both my parents in the matter of weeks. The same time that I became the sole caretaker for my younger sister Amara.

Which meant I had to face an impossible choice between pursuing what I want, and doing what I need.

So, instead of returning to finish my final year at Columbia University, I started looking for jobs. But everywhere I looked, people raised their eyebrows and asked why an ex-Columbia student was trying to get a job at their business.

Everyone except Marcus. He just handed me a pair of scissors and said, “Show me what you can do.”

And after I proved myself right then and there, he told me I can start the next day.

In the two years since, Marcus has become like a second father to me. He gave me more than a job so that I can put food on the table and the lights on.

He made me feel like I can be a person again—to face the world even when it feels like everything has collapsed. And behind all the frown lines and what seems to be a permanent scowl on his face is the kindest man that I’ve ever met.

I look up at the clock hanging above the shelves stocked with combs, clippers, and half-empty bottles of styling gel.

Just another ten minutes, and I can leave.

I sweep the last bits of hair on the floor into a neat little pile.

Tonight, Amara will probably ask me if I still have my old application to Columbia, and if she can read over my essay so she can compare notes.

Even though I don’t want her to follow my footsteps in attending the same place that sent our lives crashing down and left us both orphans, I know that it’s not up to me to stop her from trying.

God, has it been two years already? I sigh and look up to catch my reflection staring back at me. Dark blue hair instead of my natural red frames my face, and a few strands fall in front of my right eye.

Some days, I barely recognize myself.

But that's good. It’s what I want.

The bell above the door chimes, and I respond without looking up from sweeping. “We’re closing soon.”

“This won’t take long.” A deep voice replies.

It sends a thrill rushing down my spine, and something warm and tingly follows in its wake, demanding that I turn and see the source of the voice.

When I do, my breath stops and my heart leaps to my throat.

A pair of piercing blue eyes—just a few shades lighter than my hair—finds me.

Tall and wide-shouldered, the man standing there has a face made up of nothing but harsh angles that looks even more pronounced under the bright lights of the barbershop.

The expression on his face is a halfway mix between brooding and questioning, like he’s trying to figure out everything about me with a single stare.

Everything about him screams precision and control. Two deliberate crease lines run down the exact front of each pant leg. There isn’t a wrinkle anywhere on his charcoal-colored suit. Even his collar manages to wrap around his throat like it’s made just for him.

And every strand of his whiskey-colored hair is exactly where they should be.

He looks like he belongs on the cover of a GQ magazine instead of this dinky little barbershop in the Bronx.

I want to tear my eyes away, but there’s a hypnotic quality about him that commands me to keep looking. And somehow, I get the feeling that if I dare to look away, bad things might happen.

Finally, I break the silence. “You sure you’re in the right place? You don’t look like you need a haircut.”

“This is exactly where I need to be, printsessa.”

The word practically rolls off his tongue. Melodic, familiar, and inappropriately intimate coming from his lips. Like it’s a word meant for me and only for me. Another wave of heat thrums down my back.

And suddenly it feels like I’m the one who’s in the wrong place and not him.

I don’t like this. Not one bit.

Whoever this man is, he’s far too handsome. Far too perfect.

Which means he’s dangerous.

And when dangerous handsome men in suits start walking around places like this, bad things are sure to follow.

Without waiting for me to say anything else, he walks towards my chair like he owns the place, moving with the confidence of someone who's never been told 'no' in his life. He sits down before I can process what’s happening, and the worn-out seat hiss in protest from his weight.

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips when our eyes lock in the mirror.

I swallow.

He tilts his head back to expose his neck where I can spy the hint of tattoos peeking out from under the collar.

“And I don’t need a haircut.” His deep voice rumbles again and I fight the urge to bite my lower lip. “Just a shave.”

I glance at the clock, as if looking for an excuse to refuse him. But the way his eyes insistently drills into mine tells me that refusal is not an option.

So, I throw the sheet across his suit and cinch it tight around his neck. In the process, I catch a whiff of his cologne—light and soapy, with just a hint of cloves that you really have to get close to pick up.

“Be honest,” I mutter. “What are you really here for?”

“Maybe I came for the conversation,” he counters smoothly.

A dry laugh tumbles out of my lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The smile doesn’t quite leave his face, and a charged silence slowly settles between us. The space suddenly feels tinier than it should be. And apart from our soft breathing, the only other sound left is that of a commercial from the TV.

“I’m just surprised someone dressed like you is walking around this neighborhood.” I start lathering up his face. “Someone might look at you and see a piggy bank on two legs.”

“Is that what you see?”

Heat runs up my face in embarrassment, and I wish I can just crawl under a rock and die.

“No.” I stammer quickly before I can stop myself. “I’m just—it’s that—I—”

It’s that I think you’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen, that I’m equal parts turned on and equal parts terrified why you’re here.

Because it’s like he said, right? This is exactly where he needs to be. And I have a feeling that he’s here for me.

The smile still hasn’t left his face, and he continues looking at me intently. If he’s offended by what I said, he doesn’t show it at all.

My fingers brush his cheeks accidentally as I continue lathering up his face, and I notice just how warm he feels.

He tilts his head back further back to let me coat his throat, but his eyes never leave mine.

“I can handle myself well enough out here,” he says when I finish.

“You know that ego isn’t bulletproof, right?” I raise an eyebrow as I walk over to the counter, glad for the momentary respite to pick out a single razor blade and slot it into the handle. “And I hope you got backup outside in case something does go down.”

“Backup is for people who make enemies.”

I walk back behind him. “Do you expect me to believe that you don’t make any enemies? Dressed like that? Wearing that watch?”

“I don’t.” Something dark flickers in his eyes as the razor approaches his neck. “I make examples.”

I gaze down at him.

He stares up at me.

"Please don't talk when I'm using the razor." I say quietly when I find my voice again. "I wouldn't want it to make you an example."

“Hmm.”

My free hand moves to hold his chin, and heat licks up my arm from the point of contact until it reaches my face. The razor descends slowly and kisses his skin.

His eye darts away from mine for a moment to read my name tag clipped to my apron.

“Which came first…” he asks, his Adam’s apple throbbing under my hand with every syllable. “The name or the hair?"

My stomach does an involuntary backflip and I fight to keep my hand steady.

He’s observant, I’ll give him that. More observant than I’d like. Instantly, alarm bells start ringing in my head.

Because he’s getting dangerously close to an awful truth.

“What did I say about talking?” I remind him softly.

The blade draws a smooth path up his neck, over the hump of his Adam’s apple, and flicks off his angular jaw. The scraping sound of steel on flesh is a welcoming distraction. Slowly, I feel myself becoming settled as I focus on the task at hand.

But just then, the commercial ends and an ad from the mayor’s campaign comes on. My ears prick up at the sound of a familiar voice from the TV. First in Spanish, and then in English.

“This November, make your voices heard, New York. Because a vote for Grant Bennet is a vote for…”

Most people might describe Mayor Bennet’s voice as a smooth and rich baritone. But me? That voice sounds like a jackhammer ripping up the concrete sidewalks.

And I’ll be fine with never hearing it again.

Reflexively, my fingers tighten around the handle of the razor and my hand starts shaking again. But this time, not from nerves.

From anger.

Don’t listen. Focus on what you’re doing. I keep repeating to myself. On anything but that bastard’s voice coming from that TV.

The razor draws another long slow stroke from the man’s neck towards his jaw before flicking away.

"Did you know that the mayor has some interesting skeletons in his closet?" The man starts talking again. “Skeletons that he’s willing to kill to keep hidden?”

My hand freezes.

Those blue eyes drill into mine, deadly serious and focused.

“Want to ask why I’m here again, printsessa?”

Oh God. Oh no. Oh fuck.

I was right. He is here for me.

My hand starts shaking. I have no reason not to believe that he’s not telling me the truth right now. And I know that I have to act. It’s either him, or it’s me.

I’m not a killer.

You have no choice.

Because if I die, then Amara will have no one left in the world. And I can’t do that to her.

The razor presses just a little closer to his neck.

He doesn't react at all, other than letting his smile grow wider as he tilts his head back further to expose more of his throat. His blue eyes pierce me like he’s staring straight into my soul.

Like he expects me to do something like this.

Like he wants me to do something like this.

The razor starts to move. A thin red line appears on the man’s neck, and blood mixes with the white soap in a pale pink swirl. The sight of it stops my heart.

And my hand.

Blood rushes in my ears at what I just did. My breathing grows uneven, and I can’t stop staring at the blood that keeps oozing out from where the blade opened him as it stains the pristine white collar of his shirt.

But he just keeps watching me. Waiting.

Like this is all some kind of test.

"Keep going." His voice drops lower, almost a purr. "I didn’t tell you to stop."

But before I can, a movement catches my eye from the front window. A black sedan crawls to a stop by the fire hydrant outside even though there’s no traffic on the street.

That's weird.

The tinted window rolls down slowly.

The dying sun glints off something metal.

My eyes widen in recognition.

Gun!

Before I can scream, before I can move, before I can even process what's happening, the man in my chair explodes into action. His hand closes around my wrist, and yanks me down to the ground at the same time as he launches himself out of the chair.

The gun roars.

The window shatters.

"Stay down!"

His body covers mine as glass rains down around us. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I find myself pressed against the floor, trapped beneath his solid muscle and expensive suit.

His heart is racing against my chest. Or maybe that's mine. I can't tell anymore.

More shots ring out.

His weight presses me hard against the floor as more glass explodes overhead.

I can't breathe. Not because he's heavy—he is—but because something hard is digging into my hip, and it takes me a moment to recognize what it is.

A gun under his jacket.

My heart slams against my ribs. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

His arm stretches past my face, and for one wild second I think he's reaching for me. I flinch, but his fingers close around the razor that's fallen from my grip.

Bullets ping against metal somewhere to our left. Shattered glass rain down on us like tiny glimmering diamonds. The scent of his cologne fills my nose, cutting through the fear in my veins to calm me.

It shouldn't be making me dizzy right now. But it is.

Now it’s his turn to put the blade up against my throat.

“Count yourself lucky today," he says, as casually as if we're meeting at a coffee shop. “I’m not the only one who’s trying to kill you. Now be a good girl and tell me your name. Your full name.”

"Taylor," I reply, knowing that somehow, I’m alive because he wants me alive more than he needs me dead. “Indigo Taylor.”

"Indigo Taylor," he says my name slowly, as if he's running his tongue over each syllable to see how it tastes. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Anatoly Baryshev.”

Then, a knowing smile ghosts across his lips. He shifts slightly until his face is hovering inches from mine until those piercing blue eyes are the only things that I can see.

The space between us seems to dissolve away, and I can feel his powerful voice rumbling against my ribcage. An unexpected shiver rushes down my spine. Not entirely from fear. And not entirely unwelcome either.

"Say nothing to no one about what happened." He taps the dull backside of the razor against my chest with each word. "Understand?"

Unable to find my voice, all I can do is nod at him quickly.

Without another word, he’s back on his feet in one fluid motion.

My body feels suddenly cold without the weight of him over me.

"I'll be seeing you again."

Warmth flushes up my cheeks again, and I know I'm blushing in spite of the insanity of everything happening between us.

He glances back at me one final time, razor in one hand and gun in the other, before rushing through the door into the chaos outside.