Page 45 of Sweet Obsession

“Sleep well, malyshka,” his voice dropped into something almost tender, but the weight of his gaze remained as unforgiving as ever.

And then he turned, heading toward the south wing, his footsteps echoing off the walls, leaving me standing there, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

A few hours later, I jerked up from sleep, a nightmare choking the breath from me. I was back in that alley, my mother’s blood soaking into my skin, a man’s body crumpled on the ground. I sat upright, scared and depressed, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I knew this nightmare all too well. It was like the past never left me. No one knew this side of me, this broken version who had never escaped it.

Each time the nightmares came, sleep always slipped away afterward, so I slipped out of bed and wandered the mansion’s endless halls, as if pacing could shake the shadows in my mind. I didn’t even notice how far I’d gone until I found myself near the main living room. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing the blackness of the forest outside like a painting.

And there he was.

Misha.

The feeling of his hand at my waist, steady and possessive, played in my head like a dangerous memory.

He stood by the bar, a glass of something dark in his hand, his gaze fixed on the reflection in the polished surface as if it held answers to questions only he could ask.

I didn’t know why I approached. I should’ve turned around.

I should’ve gone back to my cold, lonely wing, where silence had always been my only companion. where my nightmares could stay. But the pull toward him was undeniable, something in me craved the warmth of his presence, even if it meant unraveling myself in the process.

“You don’t sleep either?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder would break the fragile spell between us.

His eyes flicked toward me, cool and assessing. “Sleep is for men who aren’t hunted.”

His words struck something deep inside me, a truth I didn’t want to admit. I knew exactly what it felt like to always be onedge, to live with the constant knowledge that one wrong move could be your last.

I took a step closer, my feet soundless on the thick carpet. “Who hunts you?” I asked, barely able to breathe as I waited for his answer.

“Everyone,” he replied simply.

My throat tightened. Somehow, the loneliness in that admission hurt more than any threat.

For a long moment, the silence stretched between us, heavy and thick. I should’ve left.

But instead, I asked the question that had been gnawing at me since the moment I saw him: “And do you ever wish it was different?”

His jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the glass. He didn’t answer.

And for the first time, I saw it. The cracks in the ice. The man beneath the monster.

I turned to leave, my heart hammering in my chest. But before I could take a step, his voice stopped me.

“Luna,” he said, his voice rougher than before, as if something inside him had snapped.

“Stay.”

I froze.

He moved faster than I could react, his hand locking around my waist, pulling me into him with a possessiveness that stole the air from my lungs. I felt him, hard, urgent, a raw tension pulsing through him.

I tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened, drawing me closer. His body pressed against mine, impossibly close. I could feel every hard inch of him, his arousal evident through the fabric of his trousers, against my own.

“Don’t go,” he muttered, his voice dark and dangerous, but there was a hint of desperation buried in it, something I didn’t want to acknowledge.

His cologne filled my senses, sweet, intoxicating, too close for comfort. My heart raced, betraying me. Because I knew, in that moment, if he wanted to take me right there, I wouldn’t be able to stop him.

He withdrew after what felt like an eternity, his chest rising and falling as if he had just pulled himself out of a breakdown. His eyes were burning into mine, fierce and unreadable.

For a while, neither of us moved. The space between us pulsed like a living thing.