Page 11 of His Darkest Obsession
ANATOLY
Of all thepeople who I thought I had to kill, Indigo Taylor was the last person I expected.
When I walked in, she greeted me automatically without turning around. I got a good look at her fucking ass sashaying rhythmically with every sweep of the broom, and it sent a shot of heat running straight to my dick.
Blyat…I was staring at her ass for so long that I’d almost forgotten what I came in to do.
Then she turned around, and I no longer wanted to dowhat I came in to do.
Bronzed skin warmed by a golden undertone that emphasizes her full pink lips. Long blue hair framing her innocent looking face with a few errant strands that falls over one eye. All I wanted to do in that moment was to tuck it behind her ear before I wrap the rest around my fist.
And her eyes. Fuck, her eyes.
They’re a soft hazel. And when they narrowed in the exact way I like out of wariness, another small twitch of heat had run down to my dick.
Her hands were soft yet steady when she lathered the soap on my face and neck. I could smell the light and floral scent that tumbled down from her as she started to shave me. Our eyes never left each other, and I was determined to keep holding her gaze. To keep looking at those soft hazel eyes and feel her breath tickling the top of my head.
To savor every moment I had with her before I did the unthinkable.
I trace my thumb against the thin red line her razor left on my neck.
Shetried to killme.
And then someone else came to killher.Someone that I didn’t know. Someone who I grabbed shortly after leaving her side. And once I did, I used the same razor she cut me with to peel the confession out of him that he wasn’t aiming for me, but forher…
Looks like Grant Bennet promised his friendship to a hell of a lot more people.
Which means Indigo Taylor alive is far more useful to me than Indigo Taylor dead.
It hadn’t taken me all that long to track her down. Partly because the Bronx is the stronghold of Baryshev territory, and partly because Indigo happens to live just ten blocks away from the barbershop.
My fingers drum against my thigh as I watch the apartment building and repeat her name under my breath like a prayer as dawn pries apart the sky with rosy fingers.
Indigo Taylor.
It’s time to move.
The sun creeps higher, burning away the last traces of night. There’s a black SUV is parked around the corner, and two men sit in the front seats.
More hitmen. I'm sure of it.
With any luck, I might be able to get to her before they can.
Something moves in one of the SUVs. One of the hitmen stretches and yawns.
Fucking sloppy.
I step out of the shadows, cross the street, and text Roma to ready the car to come get me. The hitmen notice me immediately. Their postures stiffen, and I see them shifting in their car as they reach for concealed weapons. I fix them with a cold stare as I approach the building's entrance.
A clear message:She's mine. To capture or to kill. Touch her, and you die.
An old man shuffles down the stairs with a newspaper tucked under his arm. Perfect timing. I catch the door before it closes and slip inside.
The stairwell smells like every walkup in the Bronx: something old, something moldy, something that needs more than ten layers of paint that every cheap landlord slaps on top of the walls.
My footsteps echo off concrete walls as I climb to the third floor until I find her door.
I try the handle. Locked.
