Page 9 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

I thought my life had reached an absolute rock bottom two years ago.

But now, less than twenty-four hours after meeting Anatoly Baryshev, after he shot three men dead in front of me, and after whatever the fuck just happened between us, I realize just how much worse everything can still get.

I look out the massive window, heart still thumping fast against my chest, as I finally have a chance to take stock of just where the hell Anatoly has brought me.

The view of the outside is even more beautiful from up here.

The mansion perches off the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, and waves crash against the rocks in hypnotic rhythm. There's a path that winds its way from the rear of the mansion through carefully manicured terraced gardens flowing down toward the cliff's edge.

Each garden seems to be filled with a specific color of flowers, and the effect is bands of carefully chosen colors cascading all the way down towards the cold angry sea.

Everything about place is precise and controlled.

Just like him.

Sighing, I look up the window frame and catch sight of a red light blinking in the upper corner. From where I am, I can’t tell if it’s a camera.

That doesn’t stop me from flipping my middle finger at it.

I look out the window again, and my heart squeezes at the thought of Amara. She’s staying with her friend after school for today, yes. But what about tomorrow? Sooner or later, she’s going to need to go home.

And when she does, she’ll be in danger, and I’m here playing house with Anatoly.

I can’t believe I agreed to marry him. Then again, it’s not like he gave me much of a choice. And even if I did find a way out, the guards roaming the grounds below will just capture me and bring me back.

Then, I remember that they’re not supposed to look at me, and I laugh a little at the thought. If they can’t even look at me without Anatoly flying into a fit, what are the odds that they’ll be allowed to touch me to bring me back?

It’s a foolish thought, I know. But that thought plants an idea in my head: the idea that maybe, just maybe, I can still get out.

Before he takes me to get fitted for a wedding dress tomorrow.

Before he has a chance to truly make me his wife.

And everything else that comes with it.

Standing up to my feet, I scan the room.

Slowly, my eyes are drawn to a large bookshelf that stands innocently in the corner.

It calls to me, like it has the answers to my problems. When I walk over, I’m surprised by the collection of books that Anatoly has here.

It’s an eclectic collection, that’s for sure.

There are Russian classics like Tolstoy, yes, but I’m also shocked to find several dog-eared copies of contemporary romances.

I laugh again, this time at the thought of Anatoly sitting in a chair, and licking his finger as he flips through the pages of a Nora Roberts book. But somehow, it’s not entirely a terrible image.

Reaching up, I start to pull a book out, and that’s when I notice the large brass bookend.

It’s heavier than it looks, and it feels solid and sturdy in my hands when I wrestle it off the shelf. I look at the glass of the window, and wonder if it’s bulletproof too.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

A woman’s voice—clear and sharp like summer hailstones on terracotta tiles—reaches my ears.

I look back in surprise and see a woman around my age with shoulder-length black hair staring at me.

There’s a sarcastically amused reaction on her face.

She’s pretty in an understated kind of way that emphasized her natural beauty.

There’s hardly any makeup on her face apart from a simple eyeliner.

And she’s tall, taller than me at least.

She stands there with her arms akimbo and putting most of her weight on one leg. But something about her tells me that if she wants to, she can move just as fast as Anatoly.

She’s not someone to be fucked with.

And that’s before I see the gun strapped to her side.

Her blue eyes take a singular look at the heavy bookend in my hands, and she gives her head a slow shake.

“The glass is bulletproof, silly girl. And the window is wired to an alarm.” She juts her chin at the blinking red light at the upper corner of the window. “And if it goes off, half a dozen guards will be here before you have a chance to climb out.”

She saunters closer, but I stand my ground and tighten my fingers around the heavy bookend.

“And I know that Tolya might’ve told them not to touch you. But they’ll make an exception if you try to run. And they’re so much meaner than me.”

Tolya? I think. I thought his name was Anatoly.

There’s something that bothers me about how relaxed she seems when talking about him, especially when everyone else in the mansion seems to be wound up tighter than a coiled spring whenever he’s around.

I get the feeling that if Anatoly were to stand in front of her, her posture would still be this relaxed and casual.

And unexpectedly, a rush of jealousy—bitter and sharp—licks through me at the thought.

“Who are you?” I ask warily.

“Call me Svetlana,” she replies. “I’ll be your personal guard at Tolya’s request.”

I purse my lips. Sure. Personal guard. More like personal jailer. But I keep my mouth shut.

“So you are the woman that he is willing to start a war for. Indigo…”

She drags out the final syllable of my name as if she’s waiting for me to say something. I lean forward and give her a questioning look.

“I need your father’s name, silly girl,” she says.

My spine stiffens. “Why?”

She sighs and gives her hair a lazy flip. “You are to be a pakhan’s wife, and I need to know your father’s name so that I might address you with the respect your title demands, until a time comes when we can be more familiar with each other.”

“Pakhan?”

"He didn't explain anything, did he?" Svetlana rolls her eyes. "Just told you that you're going to be his bride in two days and left? Typical Tolya."

There it is again. That familiar way she’s referring to him. And like clockwork, the resentful jealousy follows almost immediately. But why am I getting worked up what some other woman wants to call Anatoly? Why do I even care?

“If you must know,” Svetlana says. "Tolya is the pakhan of the Baryshev Bratva.”

Baryshev… What?

Sensing my confusion, Svetlana adds. “You may be more familiar with the term Russian Mafia. But as I’m sure you will quickly find out, we are nothing like the Italians."

Russian Mafia.

Suddenly everything makes a whole lot more sense now. The suits, the guards, the mansion. The way he and the driver laughed after the shootout. His plans to blackmail the mayor. The way he acts like he owns everything he lays his eyes on.

Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into?

"Now then, your father's name, please." The playfulness vanishes from her voice and her eyes turn to ice. "I won't ask again."

Guilt claws at my sides at her request. I haven’t said Dad’s name since the day he died. Haven’t thought about his warm smile or the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he laughed.

And now this woman is about to pry it out of me.

"Malcolm." It comes out as a whisper. "His name was Malcolm."

I close my eyes, wishing I can see him again. But all I see is that closed casket that denied me my final chance to apologize to him for what I did.

"Thank you, Indigo Malcolmovna," she repeats, her expression and voice softening slightly. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Is this..." I lick my dry lips. "Real? This marriage to Anatoly?"

Svetlana opens her mouth, and for a moment I think she’s about to correct me on something that I might’ve said wrong.

But to my surprise, she says. “Of course this is real. He told you he’s marrying you, and he does not lie. Especially not to his wife.”

His wife.

“And just what is a pakhan’s wife expected to do?”

“You are expected to stand by his side, in victory and defeat. To be the anchor of his life. The ruler of his home in his absence. The queen on his chessboard.”

“I don’t know how to be a queen,” I confess. “And I certainly don’t know how to rule a home.”

“No, you do not.” Svetlana nods. “But you are not the first woman to find herself thrust upon this position. And you will certainly not be the last. You will learn, as every pakhan’s wife has learned before you.”

Does she think her words sound reassuring?

“And there’s no way out of this?”

Her eyebrows shoot up and she studies me like I'm some rare specimen in a museum display case.

"What could you possibly want to go back to that he cannot give you here?”

Everything! I want to shout at her.

My sister needs me, and she’s already lost me once! I can’t do that to her again. Not when I’m the only family she has left in the world.

But Svetlana’s gaze tells me that no amount of desperate pleading will ever get either her or Anatoly to change their minds. And even if she might understand my troubles, or even pretends to, her loyalty is ultimately to Anatoly.

Not to me.

She says I have to be a queen? Fine, I’ll show her what being a queen is like.

So, I force myself to swallow the words that I want to say and instead, square my shoulders to look her in her eyes, and rearrange my face to match the cold expression Anatoly’s when he told me that I’m here to marry him.

“I’m the one asking questions here, not you.”

"So you are." Svetlana tilts her head like she can see right through my act. "There is one way out of a bratva marriage. But trust me.” Her eyes darken. “You don't want that way."

My heart squeezes at her cold words as she approaches, and I grip the bookend like it’s a lifeline.

"The thing about running, Indigo Malcolmovna, is that it only works if you have somewhere to go. And if you’ve been brought here, then that means there's already nowhere left to run."

She gestures around the room. "It's not so bad being Tolya’s wife. You'll have protection. Money. Power. The ability to make your problems disappear if you so desire. People would kill, and many have, to be in your position of marrying a pakhan."

“But not love,” I point out. “He told me he didn’t need me for my love. Don’t you need love to get married?”

“In your world, perhaps,” Svetlana says matter-of-factly. “But in ours, love is the last thing to be considered, if it’s ever considered, in a marriage.”

“That sounds like an awful world.”

“And perhaps it is, but this is a world that you are now a part of. And if you want to survive in this world, I suggest that you forget everything about the world that you once knew.”

But I can’t just do that. I can’t forget about my sister. I can’t forget about who and what I used to be before I met Anatoly. Broken and defeated, yes, but I was still me. And now, I’m expected to throw all of that away?

I can’t do that.

“I didn’t ask for this.” I turn away from her and let the bookend fall to the floor in a heavy thud. “I didn’t want this. And I wish this never happened to me.”

“Look at me, Indigo Malcolmovna.”

I do, and see an intensity in her blue eyes that reminds me so much of Anatoly.

“The past is carved in stone. It cannot be changed, only worn away. And even then, the worn marks will remind you of what happened. When you wish that the past never happened, you breathe power into it. Only by accepting that it has happened and resolving to never let it drag you back down into its depth, will you ever triumph over it.”

My breath turns shallow as I listen, and I think about the scars crisscrossing along the insides of my thighs.

I’m all too familiar with how the past can leave its marks on you.

Svetlana leans in closer and her voice sharpens.

“There are many things that people don’t want in this cruel thing we call life. Awful things. Yet they happen every single day. You are allowed to admit that you did not want them. You are even allowed to admit that you were hurt by them. But you are never allowed to wish that they didn’t happen.”

She speaks with such candor and ferocity that I can feel the curiosity seeping into my bones at what kind of past she might’ve endured.

Is she anything like me?

Or did she experience something so much worse in a place like this?