Page 4 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

Amara is sitting at the dining room table by the time I shoulder the door open and drop my bags by the door. A mountain of textbooks is spread around her like a paper fortress. One look at my face and she's on her feet.

"What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"The barbershop got shot up today." The words tumble out before I can soften them. "Right while I was closing up."

When the hottest man I’ve ever seen came in to talk to me about the mayor wanting me dead.

"Oh my god." She rushes over. "Are you okay? Did anyone get hurt?"

My throat closes up.

No, I'm not okay. I'm terrified. That man came to kill me. And it was only through the dumbest luck that I’m still alive.

But I can't tell her that. She’s gone through enough because of me.

"I'm fine." I force a smile. "Just rattled. And everyone else is fine too. Marcus stepped out a little while earlier before to help Mrs. Diaz move a few boxes."

“That’s good.” She studies my face. Her hazel eyes look so much like Mom's that it hurts. "You sure you’re okay?"

"Positive." I squeeze her shoulder. "Don't worry about me, kiddo."

"Well… if you say so." She nods, but the concern never leaves her voice.

"I do say so." I force a smile on my face, just for her. "How’s college application going?"

"They’re going well,” she beams, happy for the change of subject. “I need to meet with my guidance counselor before school tomorrow." She bites her lip. "You still good to go with me in the morning?"

I swallow hard. "Yeah."

“I made some mashed potatoes before you got home," Amara says. "Not as good as Mom's but it gets the job done."

My chest tightens at her words. Not as good as Mom's. Nothing ever is anymore. Not the food, not this home, and not even the advice that Amara needs.

And it's all my fault. If it wasn't for me, Mom and Dad would still be here, doing what parents are supposed to do. Instead, Amara's stuck with me: fumbling through parental duties like a kid playing dress-up in grown-up clothes.

"Hey." Amara's voice breaks through my spiral. "You sure you’re okay?"

I realize I've been standing here, staring at nothing, for too long. My eyes burn, but I blink back the tears. I can't cry. Not in front of her. I have to be strong, even if I'm just pretending.

"Yeah, I just need to take a shower… " The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Wash the city off me. Feel like myself again."

But I'll never truly feel like myself again. Because no amount of scrubbing will ever erase the guilt and grief and everything I can never undo.

I escape to the bathroom, and crank the shower as hot as it'll go. Steam billows up and starts fogging the mirror. I scroll through my playlist on my phone with shaking hands, and hit play so that upbeat reggaeton drowns out everything else.

The water scalds my skin red as I sit under the hot spray. I welcome the burn as I hug my knees to my chest. Anything to feel something other than this crushing guilt in my chest.

I could've died today. I almost did die today. And if I did, then Amara will have lost everything and everyone in her life.

A sob catches in my throat and I muffle it against my knees.

Fingernails dig into my legs and leave angry crescent marks on my skin. They’re nothing compared to the scars crisscrossing my inner thighs, but the pain grounds me. It reminds me that I'm still here.

That I can still control something in my life.

My chest heaves with another silent sob. The water keeps falling, but it can't wash away what happened. Nothing ever will.

I press my face closer into my knees until stars begin blooming behind my eyelids as I cry. But that's when something else swims into view.

A pair of eyes. Piercing blue and intense.

Anatoly's eyes.

They lock onto mine like he can see right through me.

His lips curves into that knowing smile.

Then everything comes flooding back. The weight of his body—hot, heavy, and yet not unwelcomed—pressing me into the floor.

The scent of his cologne as he keeps me safe from the glass falling down all around me even when he has that razor pressed up against my neck.

Anatoly.

That single dizzying moment when I saw his blood running down his neck.

When he looked back at me and smiled as he dared me to keep going.

And his parting promise.

I'll be seeing you again.

No. No. I can't think about him alike that. He’s dangerous!

But my traitorous mind keeps circling back to those blue eyes. To that voice. To the strange spark I felt when our gazes met and our skin touched. And how impossibly warm and paradoxically safe I felt underneath him.

And for the first time what feels like forever, a different emotion other than shame and guilt pours into me.

Want.