Page 6 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

What the actual fuck?

My heart stops at the sight of Anatoly standing in my home. One foot in my bedroom and the other foot in the hallway. His presence fills the narrow hallway of my apartment, broad shoulders nearly touching both walls. The same shoulders that shielded me from bullets yesterday.

He's been in my mind ever since we parted ways yesterday, and I was still thinking about him even when I dropped Amara off at school.

But to see him here in my home.

Coming out of my bedroom.

Is he coming to finish the job?

My fingers curl into my palms, and my nails leave biting crescents into my skin. The same primal fight-or-flight response from yesterday floods my system.

And somehow, I do neither.

I should run. I should scream. I should call for help.

But my voice stays trapped in my throat, even as he closes the distance between us faster than I expect.

I part my lips to scream, but before I can make a sound, he closes the distance between us. A large palm clamps down around my mouth while a powerful arm wraps around my waist to drag me back inside.

I try to kick, but all it does is slam the door shut before us.

Just like that, I'm alone with him.

My pulse races. His chest is flush against my back, solid and warm. And as much as I'm struggling to repress the panic clawing at my throat, I also feel heat bubbling up in my belly.

I try to twist away, but he holds me tighter. His breath fans hot against my ear, and his light and soapy scent tinged with a hint of cloves hits my nose again. Every point of contact between us burns like fire, sending sparks of unexpected desire shooting through my veins.

Why is my body betraying me like this?

My mind screams danger while my traitorous heart pounds with something else entirely. Something I thought I'd buried deep enough that it would never surface again.

Want.

Need.

And then his lips brush my ear, and his voice reverberates through me.

"I'm not here to hurt you Indigo," he whispers. "I'm here to protect you."

Like hell you are.

Without second thought, I bite down on his palm hard enough to draw blood. Anatoly jerks back with a curse, and I scramble away, my heart thundering in my chest.

Run. Get help. Do something.

But where? He's standing between me and the front door. The fire escape is through the bedroom, but he's blocking that too.

He lunges for me again. His hands catch my waist, and gravity shifts as we lose our balance together. The back of my knees hit the couch, and suddenly we're falling. Springs creak under our combined weight as he catches himself above me, caging me between his arms.

His warm breath tumbles down over me. My chest rises to meet his. Every exhale brings us closer to each other, and my eyes dart at the palm at the side of my head, where my teeth have left a smear of blood.

I did that. I hurt him.

And yet here he is, not hurting me back. Just... holding me here.

"I told you, Indigo, I'm not here to hurt you," he says again, softer this time. "If I wanted to, I would have already."

Heat radiates from his body. His thighs bracket mine. One of his hands moves to brush hair from my face, and I flinch.

But his touch is gentle. Almost reverent. Like I'm something precious instead of prey.

Don't fall for it. Men lie. Men hurt.

"Then why are you here?" My voice comes out stronger than I feel. "Why break into my home?"

His eyes darken. The pad of his thumb traces my jawline, and despite everything, my body moves closer to him, seeking more of his touch.

What's wrong with me?

"Because," he says, "someone else is coming to kill you."

Then, as if right on cue, the front door suddenly swings open.

Two men burst in, guns already drawn. A scream tears from my throat before I can stop myself.

Anatoly moves like lightning. His weight lifts off me as he turns around, his gun already in his hand.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The gun kicks in Anatoly's hand. I can see a flower of fire blooming from the barrel. Thunder claps, deafening in the confined space of the apartment. The first man's head snaps back in a cloud of pink mist.

The body crumples to the floor.

The second man dives behind the kitchen counter. Bullets crack overhead across my living room.

Anatoly's hand finds my arm and yanks me off the couch and onto the floor.

"Get behind me," he orders. "Now!"

I don't need him to tell me that again as I scramble behind his broad back, and press myself against him. Even through his suit, I can feel the thick bands muscle shifting as he moves to keep me from the line of fire.

More shots ring out. Plaster dust rains down around us as bullets punch through walls.

But my attention keeps moving to the dead man sprawled across the living room. Blood is already spreading beneath him in a widening pool, and for once, I'm glad that the floors are cheap laminate boards.

I think I can get all of this cleaned up before Amara comes home.

It's odd. I should be terrified. I should be having a panic attack. I should be doing everything except doing the math on how many bottles of soap I'll need to scrub out the blood.

Shit, will soap even work? Maybe if I pour baking soda on it first...

Another burst of gunfire snaps me back to reality. Anatoly's body continues to shield me from the chaos, solid and warm against my chest. Somehow, during the chaos, my hands have wrapped around his waist, and I can feel his heart beating—steady and strong—under the warmth of his shirt.

He shouts something at the gunman in a language I can't understand. It's full of staccato edges and rolling r's that would sound harsh and guttural from anyone else. But coming from his lips, they sound melodic. Just like when he calls me printsessa.

The gunman shouts back in the same language.

A shadow moves behind the kitchen counter. The gunman rises, weapon first—

BANG!

The gunman's body hits the floor with a wet thud.

Anatoly spins around, his blue eyes even and calm despite the madness that we're caught up in.

"We need to go. Now."

Without waiting for me, his hand closes around mine.

Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once. The marks my teeth left on his palm feel unmistakable, and I swear his heart seems to speed up to match mine in the moment. His grip is firm but careful.

Was his hand always this big?

The thought crosses my mind unexpectedly and heat dances up my face. He brushes his thumb over my knuckles, as if to reassure me that I'll be safe as long as I'm next to him. I nod without thinking, every movement practically involuntary at this point.

As insane as it sounds, all I want right now is for this moment to never be over.

He tugs me closer, and I step readily into his space.

The rational part of my brain screams that I shouldn't feel this way about him. That this is dangerous. That he's dangerous.

But my body just wants more.

"Wait!" I plant my feet. "My sister! She can't come home to this. If they're trying to kill me, they'll—"

"Text her," he cuts me off without looking back. "Now."

My free hand shakes as I pull out my phone.

Hey kiddo, need you to stay with a friend tonight. Will explain later. Love you.

"Done?"

“Yeah.”

He snatches the phone from my grip and pockets it before I can protest that he has no right to do that. Then, his hand finds mine again, and I feel warmth moving through me.

We're going to make it. We have to make it.

Hand in hand, we run down the stairs.

When we reach the second-floor landing, movement catches my eye. A man is charging up the stairs, gun already raised.

"Look out!"

Anatoly's gun rises. Two shots thunder through the stairwell.

The man tumbles backward. Dead.

We burst through the building's front doors just as a black car screeches to a stop at the curb.

The passenger door opens, and a man who looks like Anatoly shouts at us. "Davai!"

Anatoly rips open the rear passenger door and shoves me inside hard enough that I skid across the leather. My hip crashes into something solid on the other side as he slams the door shut.

The sound of gunfire fills the air.

People scream. Car horns blare. Chaos erupts as people dive for cover.

Anatoly's gun fires again.

The driver shouts at him in that language I can't understand. But I know the meaning even without knowing what he’s actually saying.

Get in the fucking car now!

Anatoly throws himself into the seat.

BAM!

Something hits the window next to my head. I flinch away, staring in horror at the massive white crack spiderwebbing out across the glass that should have been my death.

Bulletproof. I realize. Of course these people have bulletproof glass on their freaking car.

The car weaves through traffic. My body slams from one side to the other as we take turns at speeds that should flip us over. Red lights mean nothing as we blast through intersections, and I'm shocked that there aren't any sirens lighting up behind us.

My stomach lurches as we take a hard right. Then left. Then right again.

I lose track of where we are until I see signs for the Westside Highway going south.

Only then does the tension start bleeding out of my shoulders. Adrenaline ebbs from my veins, and I feel nothing but tiredness taking over me.

That's when I hear it.

Laughter.

Deep, rich laughter coming from both men in the front seat. It starts as chuckles but builds into full-blown hysteria. The driver reaches over, grabs Anatoly's shoulder, and gives him a hard shake while a stream of melodic words come tumbling out before the two of them start laughing again.

They sound happy.

Like this is the most fun they've had all day.

Like he didn't just leave three dead bodies in his wake.

Like I didn't almost just fucking die.

Like this is all just a game to them.

And maybe it is.

But it's not a game to me.