Page 35 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)
ANATOLY
ONE WEEK LATER
My wife looks absolutely stunning.
Indigo stands with me at the edge of the crowded gala at the Met, the midnight blue cocktail dress cascading down every curve of her body. The fabric shimmers under the dim light with every step, and a hundred pair of eyes turn when the two of us walk into the grand ballroom.
The sapphire and diamond necklace I selected rests against her collarbone, and they complement the color of her dyed hair, even as the dark copper red roots start peeking out from the intense blue.
“They’re all looking at you,” she whispers as we cross the room.
“Not me, britvochka,” I correct her. “They’re looking at you.”
“It’s overwhelming…” she breathes.
“I’m right here next to you.”
She squeezes my hand and turns towards me. “Shall we?”
In the week since I exacted vengeance on the cops who murdered her parents, the walls surrounding her heart has started crumbling whenever she’s around me. Our dinners are no longer filled with cold silence, and every once in a while, I even catch her looking at me with a tiny smile on her face.
And every night until tonight, we’d come together—lips and tongue and scraping teeth. We explored each other’s body, tasted each other’s arousal until it became almost impossible to figure out where one of us ended and the other began, and did everything a married couple was expected to do.
Well, almost everything.
Even now, that agreement we made on our wedding night—that I wouldn’t fuck her until she begged—still holds true between us.
And somehow, to both our surprise, she refuses to beg. Even when I had her thighs clamped down around my face and her pussy soaking my chin. Even when her throat was screaming around my cock. Even when we raced with each other to see just who might lose control first.
She still refused to beg.
And we’re both still left sated but unsatisfied.
Eyes follow us as we walk through the crowd. Some linger on me, but more drift towards Indigo. A mixture of appreciation, curiosity, and—to my great annoyance—hunger. Behind us, Svetlana follows like a shadow. Her watchful eyes shoot daggers at any man who dares to look just a second too long.
"I was almost disappointed that you didn't ruin this dress," I say to Indigo
A shiver runs through her body. I feel it against my palm.
"I had to be appropriate tonight," she replies.
"You’re so right.” I nod. “But once we accomplish what we came to do, I want to see this expensive silk torn, stained, and destroyed.”
“Careful, Tolya.” She swallows. “That’s starting to sound like a threat.
"I don’t make threats," I say, allowing myself a rare smile, "I make examples."
“And what example are you making by destroying my dress?”
“An example of just how inappropriate you can be."
She purses her lips and turns her face, but I see the blush making its way up on her face already at our words.
The orchestra transitions to something slow and romantic as more and more guests start filling the ballroom.
"Dance with me." I tug her closer toward me, and place one hand at the small of her back while the other refuses to let her go.
She lets out a small breath of air from her nose as her body moves to fill the space beside mine.
Heat shoots up my side, penetrating me to the depth of my bones, and collects at my groin.
I pull her even closer, seeking more contact until I feel my cock throbbing against her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
“Now who’s being inappropriate?” she whispers.
My only response is to spin give her a slow spin while I scan the room, looking for my target.
"You never told me you were such a good dancer,” she murmurs when she faces me again.
“You never asked,” I reply, guiding her into the first steps.
“And if I asked.” She traces a line along my jaw, sending another line of fire pouring into my veins. “Would you have taken me out dancing?”
My hand around the small of her waist tightens, and I pull her closer until all space disappears between us. Her thighs squeeze instinctively around mine, and I can feel her heart pounding against my leg, against my heart, and in my hands.
“I would.”
“In public?” she asks as she drives her hips into me. “Where everyone will see?”
I clench my jaws and a knowing smirk starts ghosting on her beautiful face.
“If we go dancing, britvochka,” I tell her as the music swells around us, and our dance turns more and more inappropriate by the second. “I would buy out the entire club so that only I can see.”
“Promise?” she asks, eyes glinting with mischief under the dim lights, and a familiar heat starts pounding through my chest.
I dip her low while supporting her weight with one arm. The heat between us disappears for a moment as her body leaves mine, but her eyes remain transfixed on me. She gives a tiny little gasp and a yelp that only I can hear in the ballroom.
“Were you afraid that I’ll drop you?” I ask when I pull her back upright.
“No.” she shakes her head as her body continues to move with mine effortlessly. “You just surprised me. That’s all.”
“I didn’t think I can still surprise you.”
“And yet, you still manage to do so.” She smiles. “Now do it again.”
I do exactly as she commands. This time, Indigo throws her head backwards, shaking a strand of blue hair loose from her eyes as she exposes her lovely neck to me.
But suddenly, something between us shifts.
Her hand grips mine more tightly than before.
Her chest starts rising and falling in rapid succession.
And her hips have stopped moving against me.
When I pull her back up this time, she looks behind her, and her lower lip starts trembling.
I follow the direction of her gaze, and that’s when I see him.
Grant Bennet, standing with a young woman who looks like she’s just graduated from college near the bar with a drink frozen halfway up to his lips. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and something dark flutters past his face.
"Indigo?" I ask, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t face me, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge me as the trembling in her lips starts spreading through her entire body.
Her eyes are still locked on Grant Bennet, and there’s no mistaking the color that’s draining from her face as she looks. Her hand tightens against mine with that same desperation I had felt a week ago when she stood next to me atop the stairs as my family walked into the door.
She’s scared.
"I can't—" she whispers, voice cracking.
Before I can respond, she tears from my grip, stumbling backward. And before I can stop her, she is pushing her way through the crowd, her blue dress disappearing between the tuxedos and gowns.
My instinct screams to follow, but something makes me turn back toward Bennet.
His eyes continue to track her through the crowd. A mixture of disbelief, hunger, and anger war for control in their depths. The way he watches her retreat makes my blood boil with anger. Bitter adrenaline pumps through my blood. My hand balls into fists.
And when his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, a gesture so brief most would miss it, red starts creeping into the corner of my vision.
Cold, calculated anger burns away until only something molten and vicious remains as I glare at Bennet. The gun in my jacket hangs heavy against me, and practically screams at me to reach for it.
Grant's eyes finally break from Indigo's path to meet mine. Recognition flashes, and he knows that the rumors are true. That Indigo Taylor is now mine.
His lips curl with contempt as he deliberately turns his back to me, dismissing me like I'm nothing.
Like he doesn't know who the fuck I am.
Or what the fuck he originally asked me to do.
I glance back and give Svetlana a nod, and she starts moving through the crowd with practiced ease toward the same direction that Indigo disappeared.
As for me, I now turn my attention back to Bennet. Straightening my cufflinks and smoothing the front of my jacket, I cross the ballroom in measured strides.
When I intercept him by the bar, his young companion looks back and forth between us, and even she can detect the anger and hatred rolling off me in waves.
Stammering something, she steps away with her drink to leave us alone, and casts back a furtive stare when she thinks she’s far enough.
"Mr. Baryshev," Bennet acknowledges stiffly. "Just what—"
I don’t bother letting him finish whatever fucking bullshit he wants to spew at me. I want him to know that he doesn’t get to fucking stare at my wife. He doesn’t get to put fear in her eyes. That he has no fucking right to make her rush away from this like she’s the one who did something wrong.
I put a heavy hand down on his shoulder to root him in place, then I lean in and snarl.
"I know what you did."