Page 39 of His Darkest Obsession
"Shall we?"
He asks it like he cares about what my thoughts are right now. Like I'm actually his fiancée and future bride.
I hesitate.
Is this real or just part of our charade to look convincing?
Does it matter?
I place my hand in his, and his fingers close around mine. His thumb draws a tiny circle against the back of my hand, and the I become all too aware of the way my heart thumps against my ribs.
Hand-in-hand, we walk down a wide hallway in silence, and I become all too aware of the sound of our footsteps. As much as I want to pull my hand out of his, I don't.
His presence surrounds me completely, like I'm caught in his orbit with no way to escape the gravitational pull.
I glance at our joined hands, his thumb still tracing patterns on my skin. Each touch feels like a dangerous intrusion past my carefully constructed barriers. The kind that has kept both me and my sister alive and safe for the last two years.
"You're thinking too loudly," Anatoly murmurs, his eyes never leaving the hallway ahead.
"Better than saying something I'll regret."
His lips curl into that half-smile that's. "Why do I get the feeling what you regret saying will be what I want to hear the most?"
And there it is. He disarms me again without even trying. How does he keep managing to reach past all my defenses so easily? How is he peeling back my layers when I've spent years making sure no one could?
The quills of my porcupine are retracting, and leave me exposed in ways I haven't been since before everything fell apart. Soon I'll have nothing left to protect myself with.
Both from him and from myself.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," I whisper.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to understand me."
His fingers tighten around mine. "Is that what scares you, Indigo? That I might understand you?"
Yes.
Because understanding means vulnerability. Vulnerability means risk. And I've risked enough already with this man who still terrifies me even as he draws me closer.
And I'm not prepared for what happens when those walls come down completely.
"Where exactly are we getting married?" I ask, trying to distract myself from his touch.
Anatoly's lips curve just slightly. "Would you like to see?"
I nod.
He guides me outdoors, his fingers loosening just enough but never leaving mine as we cross the manicured lawn toward the property's edge. As we approach the cliff overlooking the ocean, I spot several men erecting an elegant white arch, and adorning it in cascading white and pale pink flowers.
"It's smaller than I expected," I say honestly.
And it's the truth. For some reason, I imagined that a wedding to Anatoly is supposed to take place in a grand ballroom with soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers, wherethe sound of the hundreds of guests buzzing like a swarm of hornets. I expected every table to be decked out with multiple bottles of imported vodka and custom silverware. All while men with guns under their jackets stand at every exit, eyes constantly scanning for threats. And around us, women draped in diamonds whispering about the strange American girl who caught Anatoly's eye.
Not this. Not something so small and intimate.
The ocean crashes against the rocks below, and I pull in a lungful of salty spray.
