Page 32 of His Darkest Obsession

10

INDIGO

"Keep your arms straight, please."

It turns out that when you're getting married to a Pakhan on a short notice, you don't go out to a boutique to get fitted for a dress. The boutique will come to you.

The seamstress's fingers press into my ribs, measuring tape pulled tight around my waist. Two other women flutter around me like hummingbirds, pins between their teeth, fabric samples draped across their arms. I'm up on a small pedestal in the middle of one of the mansion's countless rooms, surrounded by mirrors that multiply my discomfort into infinity.

But it's not the endless measuring or the occasional prick of a pin that has my heartbeat racing.

It'shim.

Anatoly sits across the room in a leather chair, one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He’s wearing another perfectly tailored suit today, and his tie is cinched all the way up his neck. And justlike the first time, there isn’t a single wrinkle on his clothing as he watches me with those piercing blue eyes through the mirror.

He hasn't said a word since they started taking my measurements fifteen minutes ago.

"Turn, please."

I rotate mechanically, the movement bringing Anatoly directly into my line of sight. His gaze flicks from my face down to my hips, then slowly back up again, leaving heat in its wake.

"Can I at least see the dresses?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.

One of the women gestures toward a rack beside Anatoly. "After we take your measurements."

Each dress on the rack is more elaborate than the last—beading and lace and yards of delicate fabric. A parade of white fantasy gowns that would make any bride-to-be swoon.

Anyrealbride-to-be, that is, and not a prisoner forced into a role she never wanted.

"Arms up," another seamstress instructs, tape measure encircling my bust.

I comply, eyes still locked with Anatoly's.

"Getting a good look,Tolya?" I ask him coldly.

If using the name Svetlana used for him is supposed to annoy him, he shows no signs of it. His lips curl slightly. "Yes."

The woman measuring my bust makes a disapproving noise, but doesn't dare say anything.

"Which one would you prefer?" Anatoly asks, nodding toward the dresses.

"The one that comes with a return policy."

This draws a genuine laugh from him—a sound that vibrates through me in places I wish it wouldn't. The seamstresses exchange nervous glances, clearly uncertain about the dynamics between their boss and his unwilling bride.

"Step down now, we'll start with the first option," the lead seamstress says, helping me off the pedestal.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be than here?"

"I'm in no hurry," Anatoly says.

"No hurry?" I challenge. "And yet we're getting married tomorrow,Tolya.Funny how that works."

This time, I manage to get a reaction out of him, and his blue eyes darken slightly. I almost regret saying it this time. Almost.

But that infuriating smirk never leaves his lips, and he traces his thumb over the scar I left on his neck the other day. The gesture shouldn't be as hot as it is, but suddenly, I'm remembering the way his thumb on my wrist and heat begins creeping up my cheeks again.

"Yes, very funny." He stands. "Almost as funny as you addressing me soinappropriately."