Page 116 of Sweet Obsession

The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And I am alone. But not really. Not anymore.

Because out there, pieces of the past still bleed. Stepan’s ghost is still here, trapped in my mind. And Misha... he’s no longer just my protector.

He’s a storm.

And I’ve invited him into the eyes.

The next morning, the silence hangs between us like an oppressive weight.

I can feel Misha across the table, but I refuse to look at him. The air crackles with unspoken words, heavy and suffocating. The weight of everything unravels in the quiet, each tick of the clock, each scrape of silverware, more deafening than the last.

Sofia brings in fresh bread, but it does nothing to ease the tension. The smell is too sharp, too real. The warmth of the fire crackling behind us is just another reminder of what I can’t escape.

I can’t bring myself to look at him, not once. Not even when the knife trembles slightly in my hand, betraying me.

Misha is still across from me, his coffee untouched. His posture is too perfect, too composed. He watches me like a king surveying his battlefield. But the battlefield is me. And I’m not an enemy to be conquered.

I can feel the intensity of his stare. It burns into the side of my face. His presence, the sheer weight of it, presses down on me.

But I don’t look at him. I can’t.

Because if I do, I’ll fall apart.

His voice is flat, but I know the anger beneath it. The frustration. The need to break me, to make me acknowledge him.

“You had a nightmare.”

I don’t answer.

“I heard you screaming through the walls.”

Still nothing. The silence is deafening, stretching between us like an abyss.

“I told Sofia not to come. I didn’t want you waking up with strangers crowding you.”

I don’t even blink. I just keep my focus on my toast, my hands moving mechanically. Butter. Bite. Chew. Swallow. But nothing tastes right. The sweetness of the jam, the warmth of the bread—they all taste like copper. Like blood.

I can feel his eyes, his gaze, burning into me.

“You had a nightmare,” he says again, softer now, almost asking.

I don’t answer.

“You saw him.” A pause. “Maybe your dreams can help us figure out who actually fired the shot that killed him. I know who betrayed him—your father, the Vargas cartel. And I swear to you, they’ll bleed for it. But I still don’t know who pulled the trigger.”

“It’s not a dream,” I murmur. “It’s a nightmare.”

I stand, the chair legs scraping the floor behind me. My body’s trembling, but I force it to stay upright. Controlled. Distant.

I don’t have to look at him to feel it, the anger simmering under his skin, the desperation that’s barely masked beneath all that control. He wants the truth like it’s air. Like it’s blood.

But I can’t give it. Not when the memory feels like a wound still bleeding.

I turn toward the door.

“Luna.”