Page 36 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

I run through the corridor of the Met, brushing past guests who give me startled looks as I push forward. My chest feels tight, each breath harder to draw than the last as my heels click like a hail of bullets against the marble floor.

But I'm not running through a museum. Not really.

I'm running through memories I've tried so hard to bury.

I can feel the crinkling paper of the examination table again.

Smell the familiar antiseptic stench of the hospital.

Hear the doctor’s voice like the buzzing of a million wasps, angry and harsh.

And I’m being overwhelmed by that familiar sense of shame.

Of panic. Of guilt clawing at my insides like a wild animal trying to escape.

I snap my jaw shut but I swear I can still hear the same guttural scream being pulled from deep inside me that awful summer.

I thought that after watching Anatoly kill the two cops who murdered my parents, I would finally have the strength to face Grant Bennet again. I convinced myself I was powerful now, protected.

That I can face him without crumbling.

But the moment I saw him again, all my bravado and power faded away. With a single look of recognition, he still managed to make me feel small, insignificant, and weak. It’s as if the past two years never happened.

As if I'm still that terrified intern in his office.

I shudder as I duck into an alcove and pressing my back against the wall. My hands tremble as I try to steady my breathing. My right hand rises to cover my mouth. A strained scream bubbles up from my throat as my left hand reaches down to my thigh to dig my nails into my skin.

I’m in control. I tell myself as the pain flares and blooms. I’m still in control! I’m still in control!

My eyes squeeze shut, and I force myself to focus on the pain as I slide down to the floor. But it’s no use. The memories from two years ago threaten to overwhelm me and tears start running down my cheeks. My breath comes out in ragged pants, and the world spins underneath me.

Breathe! I tell myself. Just breathe! Anatoly is here. He’s here and he won’t let anyone hurt you! Think about him!

Slowly, the panic starts to dissolve, and I wrestle with my own rattled mind to focus on Anatoly, and on the warmth of his hands. Air rushes into the bottom of my lungs as I gulp down the first breath.

In.

Out.

I draw another breath. Then another. Each one just a little less shaky than the last.

And that’s when I sense I'm no longer alone.

The sound of deliberate footsteps approaches. It’s not the hurried pace of other guests but something more purposeful. Something slow yet light.

Something dangerous.

When I look up, I find myself staring at possibly one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen standing in front of me in a mauve dress with a fox scarf wrapped around her neck.

She's tall and slim with sharp cheekbones that can cut glass.

Full lips painted a deep crimson. Blonde hair done in a braid that wraps around the top of her head. It accentuates her sharp green eyes.

And those green eyes are now studying me with calculated interest.

"So this is Anatoly's new pet project."

Her voice is clipped and cold, with only a light hint of an accent.

I blink as I stare at her and notice that she’s accompanied by a man in a suit who bears such a striking resemblance to her he can only be her brother.

He has the same blonde hair, the same green eyes, and the same look of terrifying beauty.

I straighten up as I slowly rise to my feet, cursing silently that my heart is starting to race again from unease. I want to step back from her, but something tells me that if I do, my life will only get worse.

"Who are you?" I manage to keep my voice steady.

"How rude of me, shlyukha.” The woman's lips curve up in a cold smile that reminds me of a shark. “I'm Lola Volkov."

Shlyukha.

I remember that word from when Valentina said it to me.

Whore.

She places a manicured hand against her chest before gesturing to the man beside her. "And this is my brother, Grisha."

Volkov? That sounds familiar.

And then it hits me. Memories of fingers digging into my chin, and a pair of hateful gray eyes drilling into mine.

“The Volkovs will hear about this, and Taras Volkov will not be happy to know who you have chosen in place of his daughter.”

This is the woman that Anatoly was supposed to marry?

“Ochen priyatno, suka.” Grisha’s eyes travel over me in a way and sends my skin crawling. "My sister and I have been dying to meet the woman who convinced Anatoly to break his engagement."

The expansive museum hall suddenly feels much smaller, and I'm aware of how effectively they’re starting to box me in.

“You’re Anatoly’s ex-fiancée?"

Lola's perfect smile cracks. "Ex-fiancée? No, shlyukhanochka. I’m the woman he will marry. Our engagement was signed in blood a long ago, and I will have my due."

“I’m his wife," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. "He married me."

"Married?" Her sharp brittle laugh echoes. "Do you really believe that? Do you honestly think that my Tolya would marry someone like you?"

And even though it shouldn’t make me mad, the fact that she dares to call Anatoly by the name that only his family calls him sends hot molten jealousy pouring through my body.

For a moment, the fear of seeing Grant Bennet again disappears, and I stand up a little straighter as hot anger and jealousy at her presumptuousness brings the fight back into my heart.

Grisha steps closer, his dark green eyes glittering with amusement. "You’ll have to forgive my sister. She's spent her entire life preparing to be Anatoly's wife."

"Then I suppose she's wasted her time." The words taste dangerous on my tongue.

Lola's face transforms, and her cruel beauty twists into something dangerous. She lunges forward and slaps me. Those manicured nails of hers rake across my face, and I feel pain blooming in their wake.

"You insolent bitch," she hisses. "You think he actually wants you? You're nothing but a tool to him."

I press my hand against my cheek and when I pull it away, I see a tiny smear of blood. "Get away from me."

"But what if we don’t want to get away?" Grisha closes in, grabbing a fistful of my dress. "What if I also want to see just what has gotten my future brother-in-law so enamored."

I twist away from him, feeling the delicate fabric of my gown give way with a sickening tear. Cool air touches my skin where the dress now hangs open.

"Let me go!" I wrench myself backward, stumbling against the wall as more fabric tears. The sound seems to delight them both.

"Look at her," Lola sneers. "Taking off her clothes already at the first opportunity. Is this how you did it? Is this how you stole him from me?"

"And is this how you plan to win him back?” I snap. “By attacking his wife?"

Lola’s eyes widen. It’s clear that nobody has ever dared to talk back to her like I have. She raises her hand again. But before she can bring it down, a new voice—cool and collected—cuts through the air.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Lola Tarasovna.”

Svetlana.

She walks calmly towards the three of us, her hands swinging without a care in the world as if she’s taking a stroll in the park. When Lola sees her, she puts her hand down slowly while her green eyes focus on Svetlana’s hands.

Even Grisha seems to become smaller at the sight of her, and his hand reaches inside of his suit.

“Wouldn’t do that either if I were you, Grisha Tarasovich.” Svetlana purses her lips.

"This doesn't concern you, bastard," Grisha snarls.

"The safety of my pakhan's wife concerns me greatly." Svetlana advances with dangerous grace. "Step away from her or I'll have to make you move."

Lola's eyes narrow to slits in disbelief. "Pakhan's wife?"

"What else would you dare call her?" Anatoly's voice sends an electric current down my spine.

He seems to materialize behind Svetlana like an apparition, his face a perfect mask of control. Only his eyes betray the rage building beneath the surface. Twin chips of blue ice that burns as much as they freeze.

He shoulders past Grisha towards me, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders, to cover the torn fabric of my dress.

And then he sees my face.

His eyes lock on the bloodied scratches. Then, he pulls out his gun and levels it at Lola's face.

"Anatoly! No!" I grab his arm. "We're in public. You can't do this here."

He doesn't look at me, doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken. His finger hovers near the trigger.

"There are hundreds of people just down the hall," I say urgently. "Think about what happens after."

"Listen to your little whore, Tolya," Lola hisses. "She seems to understand—"

Whatever I seem to understand is never said, because that’s the exact moment Anatoly grabs Lola by the neck, pushes her against the wall, and shoves the gun into her mouth.

“DON’T!” I cry out.

Lola’s eyes open wide with fear as Anatoly cocks the hammer on the pistol back. Her legs start shaking and her face turns ash white.

Then I feel something cold and hard press against my temple.

“Let my sister go, Baryshev,” Grisha growls. “Or I’ll paint these walls red with your whore’s brains.”

“Anatoly, please.” I beg. “Please don’t do this! Not here!”

“You should listen to her, Baryshev,” Grisha hisses. “She seems to be the only person who knows the meaning of consequences.”

Anatoly’s eyes dart towards Grisha and then back at Lola. I can see the calculation spinning in his head. I wonder if he’s trying to figure out just how quickly he can pull the gun out of Lola’s mouth and shoot Grisha dead.

Or if it’s too risky.

Tension stretches like a rubber band about to snap. And then Anatoly gives a small nod as he releases Lola from his grip and pulls the gun out of her mouth. She whimpers as she slides down to the ground.

Grisha, satisfied that his terms were met, lowers his gun as well.

Then everything happens at once.

Anatoly's arm moves in a blur. The butt of his gun connects with Grisha's face with a sickening crack.

Blood spurts from Grisha's nose as he crumples to his knees, hands clutching his face.

The gun in his hand clatters to the ground, and before he can reach for it, Anatoly kicks it towards Svetlana.

"You should thank my wife," Anatoly says, his voice dangerously quiet. "If it weren’t for her, I would’ve ended both your worthless lives just now."

Lola rushes over to her brother, her hand shaking even as rage seeps back onto her expression.

"Get the fuck out of here." Anatoly's command slices through the air. "Now."

Blood drips between Grisha's fingers as he glares up at Anatoly. "We had an agreement. Protocol dictates—"

"Protocol? My wife just gave you a second chance at life. And you want to waste it talking about fucking protocol?”

With deliberate slowness, Anatoly levels his gun at Lola again.

"Or do I need to shoot your sister first before you understand that I'm not fucking around, Grisha?"

Something shifts in the Volkov siblings’ eyes. They realize that there’s no empty threat here. Lola grabs Grisha by the arm, pulls him to his feet, and starts backing away.

"This is war, Baryshev!" Grisha spits.

"Good," Anatoly replies. His arm remains steady and the gun is still trained on them as they keep backing away. "I like it when we have a nice straight-up fight."