Page 15 of His Darkest Obsession
His warm breath tumbles down over me. My chest rises to meet his. Every exhale brings us closer to each other, and my eyes dart at the palm at the side of my head, where my teeth have left a smear of blood.
I did that. I hurt him.
And yet here he is, not hurting me back. Just... holding me here.
"I told you, Indigo, I'm not here to hurt you," he says again, softer this time. "If I wanted to, I would have already."
Heat radiates from his body. His thighs bracket mine. One of his hands moves to brush hair from my face, and I flinch.
But his touch is gentle. Almost reverent. Like I'm something precious instead of prey.
Don't fall for it. Men lie. Men hurt.
"Then why are you here?" My voice comes out stronger than I feel. "Why break into my home?"
His eyes darken. The pad of his thumb traces my jawline, and despite everything, my body moves closer to him, seeking more of his touch.
What's wrong with me?
"Because," he says, "someone else is coming to kill you."
Then, as if right on cue, the front door suddenly swings open.
Two men burst in, guns already drawn. A scream tears from my throat before I can stop myself.
Anatoly moves like lightning. His weight lifts off me as he turns around, his gun already in his hand.
Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The gun kicks in Anatoly's hand. I can see a flower of fire blooming from the barrel. Thunder claps, deafening in the confined space of the apartment. The first man's head snaps back in a cloud of pink mist.
The body crumples to the floor.
The second man dives behind the kitchen counter. Bullets crack overhead across my living room.
Anatoly's hand finds my arm and yanks me off the couch and onto the floor.
"Get behind me," he orders. "Now!"
I don't need him to tell me that again as I scramble behind his broad back, and press myself against him. Even through his suit, I can feel the thick bands muscle shifting as he moves to keep me from the line of fire.
More shots ring out. Plaster dust rains down around us as bullets punch through walls.
But my attention keeps moving to the dead man sprawled across the living room. Blood is already spreading beneath him in a widening pool, and for once, I'm glad that the floors are cheap laminate boards.
I think I can get all of this cleaned up before Amara comes home.
It's odd. I should be terrified. I should be having a panic attack. I should be doing everything except doing the math on how many bottles of soap I'll need to scrub out the blood.
Shit, will soap even work? Maybe if I pour baking soda on it first...
Another burst of gunfire snaps me back to reality. Anatoly's body continues to shield me from the chaos, solid and warm against my chest. Somehow, during the chaos, my hands have wrapped around his waist, and I can feel his heart beating—steady and strong—under the warmth of his shirt.
He shouts something at the gunman in a language I can't understand. It's full of staccato edges and rolling r's that would sound harsh and guttural from anyone else. But coming from his lips, they sound melodic. Just like when he calls meprintsessa.
The gunman shouts back in the same language.
A shadow moves behind the kitchen counter. The gunman rises, weapon first?—
BANG!
