Page 8 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

"That's a good one."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest. Out of all of the terrifying and insane possibilities running through my mind, I never once considered that I might have to marry him.

But when I see no amusement in his eye, the laughter dies in my throat.

His hand on the door moves away, and I recoil, thinking that he’s about to reach for me. But all he does is tucks the key back into his jacket and continues to look at me with his intense stare.

Holy shit. "You're serious."

Instead of responding, he takes a small step forward.

Instinctively, I take one back.

Right into the burgundy adorned room.

The guards standing in the hallway disappears from my view. Not that they’ll do anything if I shout for help, based on what just happened a moment earlier. Unease moves through me.

The two of us may as well be completely alone.

I wonder if he can hear my heart beating in my chest.

"You can't—" My voice rises. "You can't just decide that!"

He takes another step forward, and I take another back.

"I can,” he finally says. “And I have."

“What if I say no?” The words slip out before I can stop myself.

“You won’t.” He continues to step forward. “Because this is the only way to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” I scoff I continue stepping back. "How is it keeping me safe by forcing me to marry you?"

My back hits cold, unfeeling glass, and there’s nowhere left to go. The walls seem to close in all around me. My throat closes up, and the thumping in my chest starts getting faster and faster.

"No one's forcing—"

“Bullshit!”

I don’t know how the word exploded out of me like that. I know that if I don’t draw that line in the sand now and let him know that I’m not just some porcelain doll he can boss around, I’ll never get another chance to do that.

It’s not my own sense of self-preservation that caused me to shout my defiance at him so openly. And from the way his eyes flickers momentarily with just a hint of impressiveness, something tells me that he doesn’t think so either.

To my surprise, he stops and looks at me with fresh curiosity in his eyes just as fresh warmth starts spilling into my chest

“Don’t bullshit me about what you’ve done and what this is,” I snap, holding onto that unexpected thread of courage and anger. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“I would never lie to you, printsessa,” he replies.

“Then tell me why you changed your mind. You were ready to kill me yesterday. What changed?”

Questions that I’ve been dying to ask come out like daggers, and I hurl them at him as hard as I can and as quickly as I can.

“Because I wasn’t the only one who was sent to kill you,” he says. “And you know exactly who wants you dead.”

My stomach twists. In the back of my mind, an awful baritone voice—rich and smooth—starts whispering from my worst nightmares. It pours icy fear against the fire burning through my veins. Fighting the urge to shrink back anymore, I square my shoulders and jut my chin out at him defiantly.

“Does that satisfy your question?” He asks.

I don’t answer him. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing more than what he already might know. Let him guess for all I care. He doesn’t get to know the truth.

He doesn’t get to know my guilt.

But my silence is an answer on its own, and he leans back, satisfied with my inadvertent confession.

“My sister? What about her?”

“You told her to go somewhere else, didn’t you?”

I bite my lip. “And what did she say?”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out my phone, and holds it up to my face. There’s a single text from Amara. What little of the preview I can see confirms that she’s going to go to her friend’s place after school.

She’s written more. But Anatoly pulls the phone away before I can read it.

“I need to know what else she said.”

He gives me a look that’s halfway between annoyance and amusement, and he holds out the phone to me. As soon as I press my hand on it to unlock it, he yanks it back.

“She wants to know what’s going on,” he reads. “She wants to know how long she should stay for. And she wants to know if you’re alright.”

Guilt claws at my chest. Oh, Amara… I wish I can tell her that this will all be over in just a few days, and that I’ll be home before she knows it. But if Anatoly is telling me the truth, then Amara can’t go home. Not for a long time.

And I have no idea if I’ll be alright.

I have to answer her.

I reach for the phone without thinking and he catches my wrist in his powerful hand. I feel a flutter moving through my stomach as the pad of his thumb draws a tiny circle on my skin. He slips the phone back in his pocket.

I try pulling away. But just like in the car, he refuses to let me go.

This time, he gives me a slight tug to pull me away from the window at my back and towards the warmth of his body.

The comfort of the unfeeling glass disappears and all I feel is the band of fire holding me in place by my wrist while he continues to look at me with that infuriating mixture of annoyance and amusement.

My heart is racing now as I stare at him, and this time, I know he can feel it in his rough calloused hands.

“It’s not a good enough answer.”

Anatoly's eyes narrow. His jaw works like he's grinding his teeth, as he chooses his next words carefully. I suppose he can come up with any kind of reason, since I’m not exactly in a position to resist him.

Which is all the more surprising that he settles on what sounds suspiciously like the truth.

"Fine,” he says. “If the man who asked me to kill you has asked others, then that tells me you’re worth more to me alive than dead.

He wants me to dance to his tune, but you’re going to help make him dance to mine,” he answers.

“And what better way to do that than to parade you in front of him as my wife. To show him that I can ruin him at a moment’s notice. "

Somehow, I knew that he wanted to use me. But I didn't think that he would want to use me like this. Like I’m a tool instead of a person. An object to be paraded around until he gets what he wants.

But there’s something else that I focus on.

Ruin him at a moment’s notice…

That phrase cuts through me harder and sharper than it should.

It burns everything else away, and leaving only twisted strands of familiar shame and even more familiar guilt in its wake.

Invisible, they wrap around my throat, reminding me of that awful summer, and choke out all other thought until I can barely breathe.

“And what about me?” I ask quietly. “What do I get in return?”

“You get to become my wife. And whatever my wife wants.” He gives me another tug. “She will get.”

My hand moves out to steady myself as I’m pulled closer to him, and my fingers come up against the hard ridges of his muscular body. The heat is overwhelming now.

But does he even know what I want?

What I truly want?

All he knows is that I’m something he can use to blackmail the mayor with. And as far as he knows, the only thing I might want is a better apartment, better clothes, better food. A better chance at life for me and my sister.

Things that he can solve with money.

He knows nothing about what I want, even as he promises to give that to me.

But what if he could?

The thought, dark and dangerous, slithers through my mind unexpectedly. Because there is something that he can give me more than money.

I’ve seen it already.

He killed to keep me safe. And in doing so, he’s held up his end of a bargain that I unknowingly agreed to the moment he told me to keep going after I nicked his neck with the razor.

My hand resting against his hard torso tightens ever so slightly, and I hear him pull in a soft but sharp breath.

"Fine." The word comes out stronger than I feel. "I'll marry you."

His eyes narrow. "Good."

"But I won't love you."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I didn't ask you for your love, printsessa." He towers over me. "I only need the two of us to look convincing together for my plans."

Of course he does.

"How convincing?" I tilt my head up to look him in the eyes and press closer until my chest brushes against his.

“Convincing enough so the mayor believes that I would do anything for you,” he breathes.

"How?” I whisper. “Should I hold your hand?"

My hand on his torso starts to move down, and I feel his muscles tense beneath my touch.

"Show affection to you in public?" My fingers brush the buckle of his belt, and I can feel his heart thudding in the space between us.

His jaw clenches.

"Laugh at your jokes?" I let my hand drift lower, past his belt. "Even the bad ones?"

A sharp inhale. His hands clench at his sides.

Satisfaction curls through me. Power thrums in my veins—a heady rush that makes me feel drunk.

Because even though he’s holding close to him and refusing to let go, I'm the one in control.

And for once, I get to decide how far this goes.

"Well?" I press closer, letting my body mold against his. "Aren’t you going to answer me?"

He responds by resting his other hand on the small of my back, and my heart starts racing again. Heat pools in my belly as his fingers around my wrist tighten ever so gently, sending delicious bursts of fire pulsing in their wake.

And I realize just how close we are.

Wait…

His head dips down towards mine, and my lips part without my permission. My breath catches in my throat.

No. No. This isn't how this is supposed to go.

But I can't move. Can't think. Can't breathe. All I can focus on is how close his lips are to mine, how his chest feels pressed up against me, how my hand is still—

Oh God.

Reality crashes back into me like a bucket of ice water. I'm pressed up against him, hand practically cupping him while he holds me close. Somehow in my attempt at getting a rise out of him, he’s turned the tables on me! And now I'm the one getting excited.

Damn it!

Frustration and confusion war inside my chest, mixing with the heat that refuses to die down. My skin feels too tight, my clothes too constricting, and worst of all… I want him to kiss me.

But I won’t let him win.

With what little control I still have over myself, I ball my hand into a fist and whip it against his balls before things can go any further.

He grunts in surprise and his hands let me go, and I use his momentary shock to free myself from him, forcing my voice to stay steady and cold.

"Was that convincing enough for you?" I hiss.

I turn around to walk away, but his hand snatches a fistful of my hair and yanks me back. A yelp escapes my lips as my back collides with his chest, I can feel him—hot and hard and throbbing—against me.

Warmth warps around me like a blanket of fire, and before I can do or say anything else, his fist in my hair yanks my head back. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind me that I’m still his prisoner as I look up at him.

His eyes meet mine and there's a smirk on his lips.

A shiver runs down my spine.

"Careful when you play dirty, printsessa."

He holds up his palm in front of my face so that I can see the clear crescent mark where my teeth broke his skin back at my apartment.

"You’ve drawn my blood twice now without consequence.” His lips brush against my ear and his voice rumbles in my head and my back. “Once with your hands, and once with your mouth."

I try to maintain my defiance, struggling against his grip just enough to seem like I'm not giving in.

"And I'll do it again if I have to," I snap.

"I don’t doubt that you will." A low chuckle shakes me against his chest and his hot breath tickles at my ear. "Which is why I’m going to warn you once and only once."

His hand begins winding in my hair—once, twice—before he gives it another yank to expose my neck.

"That after the third time, there will be consequences.”

Something dark and twisted unwinds in my belly, tangling with something else. Something that leaves my face burning hot and my pulse racing in his hand. And instead of fighting to free myself, all I want to know is just what those consequences are.

His grip suddenly releases, and I stumble forward, catching myself against the window. My scalp tingles where his fingers were tangled in my hair just moments ago. The ghost of his touch still smolders on my skin.

"Tomorrow," he says. "We're going to get you fitted for a wedding dress."

I whirl around to face him, but he's already stepping away. The distance between us feels simultaneously too far yet not far enough.

"In the meantime, I recommend that you don’t do anything stupid." His eyes never leave mine, but somehow, I feel completely naked despite being fully clothed.

Before I can even open my mouth to respond, he slams the door shut.

My legs give out, and I slide down the cool glass until I hit the floor. My heart pounds against my ribs, and my body trembles with leftover adrenaline, fear, and... something else. Something that makes me press my thighs together.

What just happened?

I press my hands against my burning cheeks, trying to make sense of everything. Of the way my body betrayed me. Of the way I wanted him to—

No.

I can't think about that. I won't.

Instead, I focus on what he said. A wedding dress fitting. Tomorrow.

This is real.

This is happening.

I'm getting married to a complete stranger—a dangerous stranger—in two days.