Page 7 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

The city blurs past us as we drive east.

What is going to happen to me?

My hands twist in my lap. The leather seat creaks beneath me every time I shift my weight. Thankfully, the laughter from Anatoly and the driver has died down. Now, the only thing filling the silence is the sound of the car engine.

I steal glances at Anatoly's profile, hating myself for each one. His jaw is set, and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead. There's dried blood on his neck from when the razor nicked him yesterday.

Don't look at him. You know better than to look at men like that.

But my traitorous eyes continue to drink in the harsh yet beautiful angles of his face anyway. High cheekbones, straight nose, full lips pressed into a thin line. My stomach twists with a feeling that I haven't felt in two long years.

Stop looking at his mouth.

But I can't help myself. Those same lips had been so close to me. And when he was laughing, the sound was deep and rich, like something that I'm supposed to savor.

I'd be a damn liar if I said that I didn't want to hear it again, and that terrifies me.

He's dangerous. He just killed two—no, check that, three—men in front of you. He was literally trying to kill you yesterday.

But my eyes betray me again and drift to his hands. One reaches up to brush a strand of whiskey brown hair out of his eye, and I remember how warm and reassuring those strong fingers felt against mine.

Nope. Don't think about that either.

I force myself to look back at the nick I left on his neck, and spot tattoos peeking out from under his neat collar.

The dark ink creates a striking contrast against his pale skin, and I wonder how far the tattoos go.

He shifts in his seat, and I can see that the tailored suit can't quite hide the breadth of his shoulders or the way his muscles shift beneath the expensive fabric.

The sight makes my pulse quicken, and I hate that I can't tell if it's from fear or something else.

Somehow, he looks completely flawless even after a shootout. Talk about un-freaking-fair.

Ugh! What is wrong with me?

A flash of those ice-blue eyes catches me staring, and heat rushes my cheeks again. He doesn't look away, and neither do I. There's something magnetic about him, something that pulls at me despite every instinct screaming to run.

You should be terrified right now.

And I suspect that a part of me is. My heart's racing, and my palms are sweating. But I also know that fear isn’t the only thing making my pulse race faster and faster. And terror isn’t what stops my breath in my throat.

Yes, Anatoly is precise and lethal when he fights and kills. But I get the feeling that when he tells me that he'll keep me safe, he means it.

Earth to Indigo, he still tried to kill you.

But he didn’t. Even though he could’ve done it twice by now. Not that I'm keeping track.

That doesn't make him safe.

No. No it doesn't. So why do I keep looking? Why does my body flush when his hand brushes mine? Why can't I stop wondering what his laugh would feel like rumbling against my lips?

Maybe that's what scares me most of all: that even though I know he’s dangerous, there’s a part of me that doesn't care.

"Something on your mind, printsessa?"

Something? More like a million things. One question after another crowd their way to my throat, starting with: Why did you change your mind?

But the one that really matters pushes its way to the front: Did Amara get my text?

My eyes move away until they settle on the rectangular bulge in Anatoly's left pocket. My phone. If I'm quick enough, maybe I can get to it.

Have you forgotten just how quick he can move?

But my mind has already made its choice and my hand moves before my brain can stop myself.

Just as my fingers slip into his pocket, his hand clamps around my wrist, searing my skin with impossible heat.

Except…

He doesn't pull my hand away.

No. The arrogant bastard keeps it there, and even presses my palm flat against his thigh. Heat burns up my face as his knowing smile and his iron grip hold me in place. His thumb starts tracing slow circles on the inside of my wrist, and my breath quickens.

"If you wanted to know whether or not your sister texted back," his voice drops low enough that only I can hear. "You could have just asked."

I try to yank my hand back, but his grip tightens. Just enough to keep me exactly where I am.

"I'll let you know the moment she does."

Then, he lets me go, and I pull my hand back as if I just touched a stove.

My face burns hotter. I'm not sure what's more mortifying. Getting caught trying to steal my phone back, or the fact that part of me almost didn't want him to let go.

My fingers curl into fists. "Where are you taking me?"

"I'll explain everything once we get somewhere safe."

Then he turns away from me.

"Safe?" I can't help myself as I yell at him. "Are you fucking kidding me? I was perfectly safe until you showed up. In case you haven't been counting, every time you appear in my life, someone has tried to kill me. First at the barbershop, and now at my apartment."

The driver's eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk. He says something to Anatoly in that language of theirs. Anatoly's jaw clenches and he barks something back. But all it does is make the smirk on the driver's face grow wider.

Oh sure, have your little private conversation right in front of me.

I turn my head away from them both, and rest my cheek against the cool glass of the bulletproof glass that saved my life as I watch buildings slowly become replaced with trees.

After several hours, the car finally slows to a crawl as we pass through wrought iron gates that look like they belong in front of a fortress, not a house.

The limestone walls stretch up toward the sky, and I catch glimpses of what looks like a pool in the distance.

My stomach drops. This can't be real. This has to be a nightmare. It has to be.

The car finally stops, and Anatoly leans forward and murmurs something to the driver. The words roll off his tongue, dark and smooth like honey. The driver nods, says something back, and then Anatoly steps out.

A few moments later, the door beside me opens and he extends the hand I bit towards me.

Salty air fills my lungs. The cry of seagulls pierces through the air, and I can hear waves crashing against rocks somewhere far below.

Where the hell did he take me?

"Come." His voice brooks no argument.

What choice do I have? He's killed people in front of me. He's taken me away from my home. He has my only means of communicating with the outside world in his pocket. And this is his car. I can't even stay in here if I want to.

I stare at his hand, at the imprint of my teeth on the palm, and I feel a little self-satisfaction that at least I managed to hurt him.

Even if it’s just a little.

And that’s enough for now.

I slip my hand into his and that same electric current from before courses through me again. His fingers—warm and strong—close around mine and he helps me from the car with surprising gentleness.

"Watch your step."

My feet wobbles as I stumble out. His other hand moves to steady my elbow, and I hate how my body responds so quickly to his touch.

Then the car drives away, and I become aware just how alone I am.

The sound of the waves grows louder, and a spray of ocean mist carries over the distant cliff edge. Everything about this place screams wealth, power, and isolation.

I try to jerk my hand away, but he doesn't let go.

Even if I did manage to free myself from his grip, where can I go? We're somewhere way out east on Long Island, and I have no phone, no money, and no way to contact Amara.

I look up at the facade of the mansion as we walk inside.

It reminds me of a beautiful prison.

The foyer is an insane mixture of marble, mahogany, and crystal. A massive chandelier hangs from the entrance, casting glimmering lights in intricate patterns all over the place.

But what draws my eye are the men positioned at every corner, guns visible beneath tailored jackets. A maid hurries past with fresh linens. A butler carries a silver tray of drinks.

And every one of them bow meekly at Anatoly when he walks through like a king.

It's like some twisted version of Downton Abbey where everyone's packing heat.

This can't be happening.

But it is. Just like two years ago.

Once again, I'm trapped in a world controlled by powerful men who see me as nothing but a toy for them to play with. A pawn in their game.

Focus, Indigo. You’re going to find a way out.

But there's no way out. Not unless I can miraculously fight my way through what seems like dozens of armed guards, and somehow swim all the way back to the Bronx from here without drowning.

"This way." Anatoly's voice cuts through my thoughts as he steers me toward a grand staircase.

I dig my heels in. "I need to get back to my sister."

"Your sister will be safer with you here."

"I’m not safe with you." My voice cracks. "She needs me."

His face softens for a fraction of a second before his mask slips back into place. "What she needs is you alive. Don't make me ask again."

I want to tell him that he has no idea what Amara needs. But he has a point. Amara needs me alive. I’m the only person left in her life. But what good is being alive if I’m locked away in Anatoly’s gilded cage?

I have to find a way out of here.

Finally, we reach the top of the stairs and turn down a hallway lined with oil paintings in heavy frames. More armed men stand at attention, and their eyes follow our progress.

I notice one of them looking at me longer than I’d like, and then his eyes start moving down before a tiny, almost silent chuckle falls from his lips.

Anatoly stops so suddenly that I almost crash into him.

Without warning, he punches the man who was leering at me. The man stumbles backwards and Anatoly seizes him by the throat. More guttural words that I can’t understand pours out of his lips, and the man stammers what could only be an apology.

But it must’ve not been enough, because Anatoly delivers a swift and brutal kick to the man’s chest, and barks out a string of words.

The man coughs up a mouthful of blood. When he slowly gets back on his feet, he turns his face upwards and stares straight ahead at the part of the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

The other guards do the same.

“What the hell was that for?” I ask Anatoly as we continue walking down the hall.

“He’s not allowed to look at you,” Anatoly replies coldly. “None of them are.”

“Or else what, you’ll kill them?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize that I probably shouldn’t have said that.

Anatoly’s eyes drill into mine.

And the corner of his lips tugs up just enough for a second.

What the actual fuck!

Then, he pulls out a key, unlocks an ornate door, and push it open.

My jaw drops.

A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in rich burgundy fabrics. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows with ornate casings flood the room with afternoon light. There's an adjoining sitting area with velvet chairs and a marble fireplace.

It's beautiful. And terrifying.

Because it's a bedroom.

No! No! No!

"This will be your room," Anatoly says as he walks me in, but his voice sounds far away through the rushing in my ears.

Wait, what?

Your room. Not our room.

Some of the panic recedes, but my hands can't stop shaking. I curl them into fists at my sides.

I can't stand it anymore. I need to know.

"Why am I here?"

He takes his time turning around, and those piercing blue eyes study my face like I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve.

My heart continues to hammer against my ribs. Say something sane. Please!

"You're here," he says, his voice low and measured, "to marry me."