Page 63 of His Darkest Obsession
The sound of my mother’s clicking heels approach closer and closer, and I slip my hand into Indigo’s and feel her grip it back with desperation.
She clings to me like I’m the only lifeline she has.
I give her a small nod and squeeze her hand back.
Then, we walk down together to greet my family.
21
INDIGO
Somehow,the fact that Anatoly was born from a mother isn't a thought that I have in my head. There's a part of me that has accepted the possibility of him appearing in this world, fully formed in his perfect suit from the moment of creation.
The ridiculousness of the thought might’ve sent a laugh curving on my face, but not right now.
Not when I see the tall regal woman walking towards us. Long blonde hair drapes her shoulder in waves, bouncing slightly with every step. The flowing skirt of her deep red gown trails behind her as she walks, parting occasionally to reveal long legs atop of a pair of heels sharp enough to stab. The necklace around her throat glimmers with large diamonds, and there seems to be a ring on each finger.
And flanking her on each side are two men. I immediately recognize Roma, who looks so much like Anatoly but with blond streaks dirtying his brown hair. The slap mark on his face has faded somewhat from five days ago.
Which means the other one must be Anatoly’s youngest brother Vassily.
Vassily looks nothing like his older brothers. Instead of blue eyes, he has the same predatory gray of his mother. And where his brothers’ hair is brown, his is almost entirely golden blond. If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve even assumed he was a guard rather than a sibling.
His eyes travel over me, and I can practicallyfeelthe hunger in his stare as it lingers on every exposed inch of skin. Anatoly must feel it too, because he squeezes my hand possessively and moves to shield me from that gaze. I know that if I look up at him, I will find his jaw clenched tight in frustration.
But I don’t dare look away, not as his mother steps closer.
"Mother—" Anatoly begins.
The crack of her palm against his cheek echoes through the hallway before he even finishes.
A red handprint blooms on his skin just like it had on Roma’s face the other day, and I feel a thread of anger peeking out from my bones at how quickly she escalated to violence.
But the part that shocks me more is Anatoly's reaction. He doesn't move. Doesn't retaliate. The man who killed three people in front of me almost a week ago now stands motionless before this woman, and accepts her abuse without question.
Like he's used to it his entire life.
The only hint of reaction is in the way his fingers tighten slightly against mine, and I wonder if the reason why he did nothing is because he refuses to let me go.
"Is this her?" Her voice is sharp with disdain.
She doesn't even look at me, speaking about me as if I'm not standing right here.
Like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar, I pull back from Anatoly's grip and feel him give me a lingering squeeze—like he's asking me to stay—before he accepts my decision and lets me go.
"Yes," Anatoly answers, his voice tight but controlled.
"I wish to speak with her. Alone."
"No."
Her hand flies up again, but without my hand holding him back, Anatoly is ready this time. He catches his mother’s wrist mid-air. But without his reassuring presence in my hand, I feel more exposed and alone than ever. I want to hug my arms around myself to hide my discomfort, especially because Vassily continues to undress me with his eyes.
But I don't.
I know that if I do, then what will come next will be harder, not easier.
"You have no right to speak with her alone, Valentina Ivanovna," he says. "Nor do you have the right to strike a pakhan."
