Page 106 of Sweet Obsession

Footsteps approached—heavy, deliberate, just beyond the curtains.

My heart lurched, panic flaring. I tried to pull away, to tug my ruined dress down, but Misha’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarled, lifting me,my legs wrapping around his waist as he freed his cock, hard and pulsing. He slid into me, deep, sudden, and I gasped.

My body clenched around him, the stretch overwhelming after the knife’s cold intrusion. He supported my ass, his hands bruising, and I slammed down onto him, fucking him back, our rhythm frantic, reckless, as the footsteps grew louder.

The risk—God, the risk, electrified me. We were married, but this, here, in the heart of a Bratva summit, was a scandal waiting to explode. Yet I didn’t stop, couldn’t, my moans muffled against his neck as we moved, the curtains swaying, threatening to betray us.

“Every inch of you is mine to ruin,” he growled, kissing me hard, his tongue claiming my mouth as he thrust faster, deeper. “Let them hear. Let them know who you belong to.”

He spinned me, pressing my hands against the wall, my torn dress pooling at my feet.

He thrust into me from behind, his hand fisting my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. “I’ll bleed for you,” he rasped, and before I could process, he dragged the knife’s edge across his own palm, blood welling, dark and glistening.

He smeared it across my chest, painting my skin, a ritualistic mark that made me scream,

My body trembled with the sheer deviance of it. His blood mingled with my sweat, our bodies a canvas of obsession, and I came undone, my climax crashing through me, a primal wail tearing from my throat as I soaked him, my legs buckling.

Misha roared, his release flooding me, hot and claiming, our bodies shuddering together as the footsteps paused, then retreated, the danger passing but the thrill lingering. He held me, still inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “If Chernov wins,” he whispered, his voice raw, “I’ll burn this city to ash before I let him touch you.”

I held onto him, breathless. My body was a live wire, trembling from the inferno we’d just ignited in the alcove’s velvet shadows. My red silk dress lay in tatters at my feet, my skin streaked with sweat, wax, and Misha’s blood, my thighs slick with our mingled release.

He’d fucked me like I was both his punishment and his absolution.

The vote was still coming. Gabriella was still missing. And the Bratva still waited outside. But right then, all I knew was this: Misha would destroy the world for me.

And maybe, I’d let him.

The red silk was gone. Torn from my shoulders by Misha’s knife, it now hung awkwardly around my waist, clumsily gathered beneath his jacket. He’d wrapped it around me after, muttering something possessive, almost gentle, but his eyes were still wild—dark with the kind of madness that promised ruin if anyone touched me again.

My heels clicked on the marble as we walked back into the ballroom. My legs were unsteady, and the burn of his grip still lingered on my hips. I’d tried to clean myself up in the shadows of the hallway mirror, smoothed my hair, fixed my lipstick with trembling fingers, but nothing could hide the mess we’d made of each other.

Eyes turned. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. I felt every stare like heat on my skin.

Misha didn’t care.

He moved with calm dominance, his expression unreadable, one hand possessively resting on my lower back as if daring anyone to speak. If they noticed my ruined dress, the faint red line the knife had left across my collarbone, or the bruising grip on my waist, no one said a word.

Because he was still a contender. Because this was still Bratva business.

Power hung in the air like smoke.

I scanned the table. Chernov sat across from Misha’s empty seat, hands folded neatly, a smug tilt to his chin that told me he’d noticed the delay.

His pale eyes flicked from me to Misha and back again, and the way he smiled made me want to claw it off his face.

He knew.

And he would use it.

The Volograd estate—the crown of the Bratva’s empire, was on the table tonight. Whoever won the vote wouldn’t just become Pakhan. They would control the region’s trafficking routes, the Bratva’s official connections to foreign arms, and, most critically, me.

At least, that’s what Chernov believed.

As Misha guided me back to our seats, the host cleared his throat at the head of the table. “We are entering the second and final half of the vote,” he announced. “A short break was called. Now we resume. There will be no interruptions.”

I sat beside Misha, pulse loud in my ears. He placed his hand on my thigh under the table—firm, controlling, his thumb moving in slow, almost absent circles that made it impossible to breathe right.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured without looking at me.