Page 52 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs. My mouth is dry, and there's a dull ache behind my eyes. For a moment, I can't remember where I am or how I got here.

Then it hits me all at once—the pregnancy tests in the café bathroom, the news broadcast, and Grant Bennet's mutilated body.

I'm in my bed at the mansion. Someone's changed me into a nightgown. The curtains are drawn tight, but I can tell it's night by the thin strip of darkness visible along the edge.

Voices filter up from downstairs. Loud, angry voices. Shouting.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, fighting a wave of dizziness.

The shouting grows louder. I can make out Anatoly's voice now, deep and furious. Roma's too, and Svetlana's sharp tones cutting through them both. And then another voice joins them.

Vassily's smug drawl.

I pad to the door, my bare feet silent on the carpet. When I open it just a crack, the voices become clearer.

"You've lost your fucking mind!" Roma shouts. "The police will be looking for you! While the fucking Volkovs are fighting us and before Bennet did any of the fucking things he promised us!"

"Let them come." Anatoly's voice is frighteningly calm beneath his anger. "I don't give a fuck! He deserved worse than what I gave him."

"I don't care about what he deserved!" Roma keeps shouting. "You've compromised everything we fucking worked for. We were this fucking close to victory and you threw it all away!"

Anatoly standing with his back to me, Roma facing him, Svetlana stands by Anatoly while Vassily stands by Roma.

"And what about Indigo?" Svetlana's voice cuts through the argument. "Has anyone thought about what this means for her?"

"What about her?" Vassily scoffs. "She's the reason we're in this mess."

"She's Tolya's wife," Svetlana fires back. "And she's unconscious upstairs while you idiots shout about things that don't fucking matter!"

"Don't fucking matter? The bratva is the only thing that matters, bastard!" Vassily jabs a finger at Svetlana. "And don't fucking raise your voice at me! You're not even a real fucking Baryshev. You're just another stray we picked up from the streets."

The room goes deadly silent.

Then Svetlana pulls her gun out and aims it at Vassily's face.

"Call me a bastard one more fucking time, Vasya!"

Roma steps between them. "Put the gun down, Sveta."

"Out of my way, Romochka," Svetlana hisses. "I don't want to have to shoot you too."

Anatoly stands there in silence as he watches the stand-off. From my vantage point I can see his hands.

His knuckles are raw and crusted with dark, dried blood.

Bennet's blood.

But the blood isn't what sets my stomach churning.

It's the knowledge that they're fighting because of me.

All of this—Bennet's murder, the family on the verge of tearing itself apart, and the chaos that's being unleashed onto the city—it's happening because of me.

Because Anatoly found out what happened to me that summer.

And now it risks escalating into something much worse.

Someone could die. And if someone did, then it would be my fault.

Again.

I can't just stand here and watch them tear each other apart.

So, I open the door and walk out.

Roma is the first to see me. He looks up and surprise flashes across his face. Then Svetlana turns around while her gun is still pointed at Vassily.

She gives me a slight shake of her head as if to tell me to go back inside.

But I don't.

That's when Anatoly finally turns around. The moment he does, all four siblings fall silent.

Svetlana lowers her gun, and Roma gives Vassily a slight shove behind him while his hands are still raised.

I feel my breath catch in my throat when I make eye contact with Anatoly. There's something wild in his blue eyes, a storm of emotions that changes every time he blinks.

One moment I see rage. Another, I see satisfaction. Then something that looks almost like relief.

My breathing quickens as he starts climbing the stairs toward me.

The baby. I need to tell him about the baby.

The words form in my mind but refuse to leave my mouth. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, heavy and useless.

I just keep staring at his hands.

Those powerful, bloody hands that held me so tenderly night after night.

His knuckles are split and raw, telling me the story of what he's done better than any news report could.

He killed my rapist with those hands.

He beat Bennet to death with those hands.

My stomach turns, not with disgust but with a complicated mess of emotions—vindication, horror, gratitude, and fear all tangled together.

He starts ascending the stairs, like a vengeful angel sent to do a terrible bidding.

My vengeful angel.

And then, clarity strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn't matter if I love Anatoly or not. It doesn't matter if he loves me.

What matters is the fact that our child will be born into this violent world.

And that once born into it, that child will never escape.

Will they turn out to be like their father? Like their uncles? Like their aunt? Or like me?

Can I protect them from the cruelty of this world when I can't even protect myself from it?

The thoughts continue to swirl as Anatoly takes one measured step after another towards me.

As he gets closer, I can smell the metallic scent of blood on him.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I wonder if everyone can hear it.

Tell him now! Tell him! He needs to know! You want him to know!

But I can't speak. I can't breathe.

Not even when he reaches the door and I start backing away.

Not even when he walks in.

And not even after he closes it behind him.