Page 18 of His Darkest Obsession

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 bastardkeepsit 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."