Page 77 of Her Darkest Possession
Indigo reaches up, her palm warm against my cheek. "Thank you."
I turn my face to press a kiss into her palm. "I'm sorry about today. About ruining Thanksgiving. I know you were looking forward to it."
She shakes her head, smiling softly. "We still have a few minutes left of today." Her eyes find mine again, softer now. "Come with me."
I follow her through the mansion toward the dining room, my curiosity piqued by the small smile tugging at her lips. When we step through the doorway, I stop short.
The table is set with plates and silverware, and at its center sits a modest spread: a small roasted chicken rather than the traditional turkey, a simple dish of mashed potatoes, and a few remaining slices of the pumpkin pie we'd brought to the Bronx earlier today.
"It's not much," Indigo says, a touch of nervousness in her voice as she gestures toward the table. "Amara and I did our best with what we had in the kitchen after we came home. It's definitely not the Thanksgiving feast we would've had at Marcus's, but?—"
I reach out and press my fingers gently against her lips, silencing her. The fact that she thought to do this—that she wanted to salvage something of this day for us—makes something in my chest tighten.
"This is perfect," I tell her, meaning every word. "Youare perfect."
I move my hand to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing across her skin. "I'm thankful that I can still celebrate the last few minutes of today with you."
My hand moves down to rest lightly on her belly. "And I'm thankful that we can still celebrate Thanksgiving together as a family. All three of us."
Her eyes soften at my words, and a smile blooms across her face. She rises onto her tiptoes, her hands sliding up my chest to my shoulders, and presses her lips to mine in a kiss that tastes like coming home.
22
INDIGO
We settleinto our chairs as the final minutes of the day rapidly approaches. Our knees touch beneath the table as we begin filling our plates.
The small roasted chicken gleams under the dining room lights, and I spoon some of the mashed potato onto both our plates.
I want to ask him what he's planning to do about Ryan. Is he going to retaliate after tonight? And what will it mean for all of us now that Ryan has all but confirmed that he's working with the Volkovs?
But I swallow the questions down. Whatever questions about the future of the bratva can wait.
What matters now is that Anatoly is home.
That he and Marcus are both safe.
That for once, nobody died because of me.
And for tonight, that's enough.
Anatoly takes a bite of the mashed potatoes.
"This is good," he says, nodding with appreciation as he takes another bite. "Really good."
"Thanks," I say, pushing the food around my plate.
It's funny, I can feel the ever-present nausea of pregnancy at the back of my throat demanding that I sate it with some food. But somehow, I'm not ready to start eating.
"It's my mom's recipe. I've tried to make it so many times..." I trail off for a moment. "But it never quite tastes right. I haven't actually tried this one just yet."
Anatoly scoops up another spoonful, this time holding it out to me. "Taste it," he says.
I lean forward, letting him feed me like he did that night at the dinner table all those weeks ago after he told me that we were getting married.
But the circumstances are different now. Back then, that was an act of power—a way for him to remind me of the absolute control he had over everything, me included. But tonight, there's no need for him to exert his control over me.
Tonight, this is an act of tenderness.
