Page 37 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

ANATOLY

I help Indigo out of the car after we get back to the mansion in tense silence, my hand at the small of her back as we climb the steps. Indigo's eyes are unfocused as she takes one unsteady step after another, staring at a point in the distance.

I catch a glimpse of her torn dress, the blood on her face from Lola's nails, her vacant stare with each step we take up the stairs, and my anger deepens.

At Lola, at Grisha, at Grant Bennet, but mostly at myself.

I should've gone after Indigo instead of sending Svetlana the moment she ran away down the halls of the museum. But I chose to confront Bennett, to see fear flash across his smug face when I whispered in his ear.

Instead, I prioritized blackmailing him over my wife.

And in the process, she got cornered by fucking Grisha and Lola.

Heat simmers under my skin, intensifying each time I look at the state of her. The fury seizes me from deep within, and suddenly the only thing I want to do is burn this entire worthless city down and sift through the ashes to find their bones so that I can mount them over my mantle.

So that I can have proof that they're dead and that they'll never hurt my wife again.

My hand by my side balls into fists, and blood thrums in my ear, so hot and heavy that it threatens to choke the life out of me. When we finally reach the top of the landing, I walk her towards my room.

Indigo moves numbly as I guide her, her fingers still clutching my jacket around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," I say as we reach the bedroom door and open it. "I should have—"

"Don't." Her voice is barely audible.

I need to walk away. Give her space after the night she's had. But I can't tear myself away from her even if there's a gun against my head. I want to hold her in my arms, to let her cry and scream and let out the ball of tension that I can see her holding onto in her body.

And then, as if she senses my mood, her hand reaches out and grabs mine. A different shot of warmth pours into my blood, one that's softer than the harsh bitter rage burning me up from the inside.

My fingers wrap softly around hers.

"Stay." The word comes out strangled, desperate. Her eyes meet mine, glassy with unshed tears. "Please, Anatoly. Don't leave me alone tonight."

The vulnerability on her face chisels at my heart until I feel it cracking and splintering with each racing beat. She brushes her thumb over my knuckle and my pulse flutters in my throat.

She's not begging out of desire but necessity.

She's not asking me to stay because of her own desire.

She needs someone to stand between her and the demons haunting her tonight.

So, I nod, and walk in after her.

She collapses onto the edge of the bed, eyes still staring ahead and hands clutching at the jacket around her shoulders.

Kneeling before her, I take her hands in mine.

"I thought I was strong enough," she whispers. "After watching you kill those two men who murdered my parents... I felt powerful. I thought I could face him."

Her eyes finally lift to mine and there's no mistaking the fear and vulnerability swimming in their hazel depths.

"But when I saw Bennet in person again, it was like—" Her breath hitches. "Like I stepped back in time. Back to that summer two years ago."

Despite my own curiosity goading at me to ask, I remain silent, and let her words flow uninterrupted.

"And as soon as that happened." Her fingers tighten around mine. "It was like I couldn't breathe. I had to get out of there."

She swallows hard, and drops her gaze to our joined hands. "I shouldn't have run off alone. This is my fault."

"No." I shake my head and plant a soft kiss on her fingers. "You were the only one who did the right thing tonight. You stopped me from killing those two in public. From creating a mess that would've brought unwanted attention."

A tear slides down her cheek. "What good is doing the right thing when all it does is put people in danger? My parents did the right thing. And look what happened to them."

A single hot tear falls from her eyes, staining the front of her dress. I want to pull my hand away to wipe it away, but I don't want to let her go. Not right now.

Maybe not ever.

Her hands start to shake in mine.

Looking up, I catch the first tremor wracking through her body before it grows stronger with each shuddering breath she takes. Tears stream down her face, but there's something else there. Something deeper and darker that reminds me of a wounded animal trapped in a corner.

Her fingers flex against mine, opening and closing like she's trying to dig her nails into her own flesh but can't because I'm holding her back.

My chest tightens.

Fuck. Without knowing it, I forced her to face the demons that haunted her. I'm a fucking idiot! I should've known that it's one thing to watch me kill the men responsible for her parents' death, but another thing entirely to stand in the same room as the monster who ordered it.

"I won't let what happened to your parents happen to you," I tell her. "I promise you that."

A bitter laugh escapes her lips. "You can't guarantee that."

"I'm the fucking pakhan of the Baryshev Bratva. My word is—"

"It's not just about me." She cuts me off, her voice steadying despite her trembling body. "Bad things can happen to me. I've accepted that. I can take that."

You don't mean that, britvochka. I want to tell her. No-one should accept that.

But I keep my mouth shut as she continues to talk.

"I'm worried about my sister. About what could happen to her if I don't let the bad things happen to me."

Then, she looks directly into my eyes.

"And what could happen to you."

Of all things that she can say, the confession that she's worried about me is the last thing on earth I expected. Even now, when she's the one who had been attacked by those psychopath Volkovs. When she's the one who was made to stand before that bastard Bennet.

She's still worried about me.

God, this woman…

She's perfect. Her perfection extends far beyond her impossible beauty but all the way down into her soul. I realize now that this is why I kept watching her when I walked into that barbershop two weeks ago under the delusion that I was going to kill her.

This is why I let her draw my blood. Not once, not twice, but three times.

This is why I continue to let her defy me at every turn. Why I'm sticking to my own word that I don't want to fuck her until she begs me.

Because she's good. She's so good and pure and innocent that it practically hurts my rotten black heart every time I look at her. That even with blood on her face, she still puts others ahead of her.

And monsters keep trying to hurt her.

My jaw clenches again at the thought. Every beat of my heart sets my blood boiling just a little hotter. Anger dots my tongue, metallic and bitter, and red creeps into my vision until it overwhelms every other color in the world.

How can anyone want to hurt her?

I squeeze her hands gently against mine even as my heart screams at me to destroy something.

"You shouldn't have to bear these burdens by yourself," I tell her. "What good is being married to a pakhan if you have to stand alone against a cold and cruel world?"

A sad smile cracks across her face as her grip loosens around mine.

"Now you're starting to sound like your sister."

"I'm serious." My thumb brushes a tear away from her cheek, careful to avoid the red marks left by Lola's nails. "Your secrets are my secrets. Your burdens are my burdens."

She winces slightly at my touch but doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into it, and her eyes flutters closed for a moment.

"Speaking of your sister," I say quietly, my thumb still tracing gentle circles on her tear-stained cheek. "There's something you need to know."

Her eyes open.

"What is it?"

I take a deep breath, knowing that my confession might destroy whatever trust is building between us. Then again, if that single confession is enough to break her trust, then perhaps I never deserved it in the first place.

But whether I deserve that trust or not, she still deserves to know the truth.

"The day I came to your apartment after we met at the barbershop, I found Amara's journal in your room."

She stiffens under my touch. "Did you read it?"

"I did." I nod. "I wanted to know more about you then. About why the mayor wanted you dead. And I thought that I might find an answer there, because I certainly haven't been able to find the answer anywhere else."

Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she processes this violation, but she lets my confession continue.

"I know your name used to be Miels," I say. "I know that something must've happened two years ago during a summer internship that changed everything for you. But I swear, that's all I know."

The room falls silent, weighted with unspoken truths, and she continues to wait for me to keep confessing.

So, I do.

"I didn't want to pry," I continue. "And if you're not ready to tell me, then you don't have to. But I'd be the world's shittiest husband if I didn't at least ask." I look directly into her eyes. "What happened two years ago, Indigo?"

Her breathing turns shallow as she withdraws into herself. Her fingers tense against mine. For a moment, I wonder if all I've done is remind her that she was always supposed to keep me at arm's length. That this marriage was nothing more than a convenience at best, and a farce at worst.

That maybe these feelings that are now wrapping around us aren't even real.

"You had no right," she finally says quietly. "Those weren't even my words to share."

"I know. But Bennet wanted you dead, and I wanted to understand why."

She closes her eyes again, and for a moment, I wonder if she's trying to find more ways to tell me that what I said is no excuse for what I did.

To tell me that this violation of her trust is not something that deserves her answers.

To remind me that she owes me nothing, not her grief nor her past nor her pain.

But then her eyes open. The haunted look cuts through me straight to my heart.

Then, she starts to talk.

"My real name isn't Indigo. It's Amelia. That's why my sister's journal calls me Miels. It's what she's always called me since she was a kid."

I give her the space to talk. Her throat works as she swallows after the first confession, and she takes a shuddering breath before she continues.

"Two years ago, I worked as an intern in Grant Bennet's office during the summer after my junior year at Columbia."

There's a heaviness to her words that speaks of something darker lurking beneath this simple admission, and each word feels like they're being ripped from the very depth of her soul.

I expect her to continue and tell me what happened during that internship so that I might see the missing piece that might explain everything. But instead, she looks away, her lips trembling and fresh tears welling up in her eyes.

"Please," she finally whispers. "Please don't make me say anymore."

The smallness of her voice breaks something inside of me, and I instinctively tug her close against my chest. One hand cradles the back of her head while the other wraps around her shoulders. Her body shakes in my embrace, and I feel tears soaking through my shirt.

"I won’t," I murmur as my fingers stroke her hair. "You've told me enough, britvochka."

She continues to cry silently against my chest and my mind races through possibilities of what might have happened during that summer internship.

What could be so horrific that it would drive her to change her name, to carve those scars into her own skin, and to make her flee at the mere sight of Grant Bennet?

Did she see something she wasn't supposed to see in his office?

Or was it something far worse, something personal that would explain the terror in her eyes when she saw him tonight?

Whatever it was, it was damning enough for Bennet to want her silenced permanently.

My protective instincts flare into white-hot rage at the thought of what he might have done to her. The need to destroy him burns through my veins.

Gently, I cup Indigo's face, tilting it upward until those hazel eyes, red-rimmed and swimming with tears, meet mine.

I have one final answer that I need to know.

I need her to be brave for just one more second.

"Did your parents die because of what happened that summer?"

Her breath stops, and she looks at me with a fresh wariness as if she isn't sure she can trust me with this information. In the silence of our embrace and the darkness of the room, the answer dangles tantalizingly out of view for a heartbeat.

Then another.

And another.

Finally, her soft hazel eyes shimmer and she gives me a tiny nod, a gesture so small that it might have not existed were it not for how close she is to me.

"It was all my fault," she whispers.

"No." I grip her face more firmly, making sure she can't look away. "It was never your fault, britvochka. Never. You understand me? The blame lies with Bennet and Bennet alone. Not you."

A fresh wave of tears spills down her cheeks. I wipe them away, letting my thumb linger against the softness of her skin. Heat blooms between us, and I as I run my finger down her cheek, she turns and places a tiny kiss on the pad of my thumb.

"I will avenge your parents," I promise, my voice dropping to a whisper that carries more certainty than any shouted oath.

"I will destroy Bennet. I will break everything that he built, everything that he loves, and everything that he is.

I will burn it all to the ground and I will do it all for you. I swear."

Without thinking, I lower my mouth to hers, and claim her lips in a kiss that's both tender and fierce.