Page 94 of His Darkest Obsession
With deliberate slowness, Anatoly levels his gun at Lola again.
"Or do I need to shoot your sister first before you understand that I'm not fucking around, Grisha?"
Something shifts in the Volkov siblings’ eyes. They realize that there’s no empty threat here. Lola grabs Grisha by the arm, pulls him to his feet, and starts backing away.
"This is war, Baryshev!" Grisha spits.
"Good," Anatoly replies. His arm remains steady and the gun is still trained on them as they keep backing away. "I like it when we have a nice straight-up fight."
32
ANATOLY
I helpIndigo out of the car after we get back to the mansion in tense silence, my hand at the small of her back as we climb the steps. Indigo's eyes are unfocused as she takes one unsteady step after another, staring at a point in the distance.
I catch a glimpse of her torn dress, the blood on her face from Lola's nails, her vacant stare with each step we take up the stairs, and my anger deepens.
At Lola, at Grisha, at Grant Bennet, but mostly at myself.
I should've gone after Indigo instead of sending Svetlana the moment she ran away down the halls of the museum. But I chose to confront Bennett, to see fear flash across his smug face when I whispered in his ear.
Instead, I prioritized blackmailing him over my wife.
And in the process, she got cornered by fucking Grisha and Lola.
Heat simmers under my skin, intensifying each time I look at the state of her. The fury seizes me from deep within, and suddenly the only thing I want to do is burn this entire worthless citydown and sift through the ashes to find their bones so that I can mount them over my mantle.
So that I can have proof that they're dead and that they'll never hurt my wife again.
My hand by my side balls into fists, and blood thrums in my ear, so hot and heavy that it threatens to choke the life out of me. When we finally reach the top of the landing, I walk her towards my room.
Indigo moves numbly as I guide her, her fingers still clutching my jacket around her shoulders.
"I'm sorry," I say as we reach the bedroom door and open it. "I should have?—"
"Don't." Her voice is barely audible.
I need to walk away. Give her space after the night she's had. But I can't tear myself away from her even if there's a gun against my head. I want to hold her in my arms, to let her cry and scream and let out the ball of tension that I can see her holding onto in her body.
And then, as if she senses my mood, her hand reaches out and grabs mine. A different shot of warmth pours into my blood, one that's softer than the harsh bitter rage burning me up from the inside.
My fingers wrap softly around hers.
"Stay." The word comes out strangled, desperate. Her eyes meet mine, glassy with unshed tears. "Please, Anatoly. Don't leave me alone tonight."
The vulnerability on her face chisels at my heart until I feel it cracking and splintering with each racing beat. She brushes her thumb over my knuckle and my pulse flutters in my throat.
She's not begging out of desire but necessity.
She's not asking me to stay because of her own desire.
She needs someone to stand between her and the demons haunting her tonight.
So, I nod, and walk in after her.
She collapsesonto the edge of the bed, eyes still staring ahead and hands clutching at the jacket around her shoulders.
Kneeling before her, I take her hands in mine.
