Page 35 of Sweet Obsession

My skin crawled at the thought—and yet some twisted part of me wasn’t surprised.

Papa arrived moments later. Unbothered. Smug.

“You leave for Russia in an hour,” he said, dropping a sleek envelope on the bed. “Misha’s jet is waiting. Don’t keep him waiting.”

No condolences. No explanation. Just the next command.

The monster I was being fed to had opened his mouth, and my father shoved me in.

Gabriela’s hand trembled in mine. Her eyes begged me to fix it. To stop this.

“I’ll get us out,” I whispered fiercely. “Whatever it takes.”

She nodded, but I saw it—the flicker of doubt.

I didn’t blame her.

Even I didn’t believe my own voice.

The drive to the airstrip was suffocating. Four guards. One driver. No words.

But the silence was nothing compared to what waited at the jet.

Misha.

He stood at the top of the staircase, backlit by sunrise, his coat flaring slightly in the wind. He looked like something carved from shadow and fire.

His eyes met mine. No smile. No warmth. But not entirely cold either.

There was something else there. Something darker. He watched me like he’d already undressed my soul—and didn’t like what he saw.

My feet moved without permission.

Up the steps. Each one heavier than the last.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. Just stepped aside, letting me pass.

I stopped beside him.

“I hope it was worth it,” I said quietly. “Killing him. Stealing me.”

He turned his head slowly, his voice a low drag of velvet over steel.

“I don’t steal what’s already mine.”

Heat flared in my chest—and lower. God help me, part of me wanted to slap him. The other part wanted to feel that voice against my skin.

“I’ll never be yours,” I whispered.

He leaned closer, just enough for his breath to brush my temple. “We’ll see.”

I hated how my pulse jumped. How his nearness sparked something traitorous in my blood.

I walked inside before I could show it.

Hours passed. I sat across from him, knees brushing the edge of his.

The cabin hummed softly, but all I could hear was him, the sound of his slow breath, the creak of his leather gloves as he flexed his fingers.