Page 49 of Sweet Obsession

A hollow ache echoed through the high ceilings and marble floors. No matter how gilded the cage, I was still a prisoner, an obligation inked in blood and buried beneath layers of power and control.

An inconvenience dressed up as a bride.

I needed something to anchor me before the silence started to suffocate. So I turned to the only thing that ever gave me a sliver of control, Jewelry.

Cross-legged on the floor, my back against the bedframe, I worked in silence. A velvet cloth sprawled in front of me, covered in tiny colored beads that shimmered like secrets. Ruby reds. Frosted whites. A few smoky quartz stones, cold and sharp like the world outside.

And one blue stone, the exact shade of Misha’s eyes.

I hated that I even noticed.

My fingers moved without thought, threading the wire with the steadiness of ritual. Foolish, maybe. But in this, I had power. In this, I created beauty no one could take from me.

A soft knock pulled me from the trance.

I didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway.

Misha stepped inside like a shadow made of silk and sin. Black slacks, a charcoal sweater clinging to the hard planes of hischest. Damp hair swept back, exposing the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint scar that cut across his cheekbone.

He looked devastating. Too human. Too untouchable.

His eyes flicked to the beads scattered at my feet, lingering just a second too long, before lifting to meet mine.

“Pack a bag,” he said, voice low. Controlled. “We’re leaving.”

I blinked. “Leaving?”

“To Moscow.”

“Why?”

“My father wants to meet you.”

I set down the half-finished bracelet, my pulse skipping in places it shouldn’t. His father.

The man behind the curtain. The real king of the Bratva.

“Now?” I asked, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.

“Now,” he repeated, already turning away, giving me no room to argue. Not that I had much left in me to fight with.

The flight to Moscow passed in a blur of private jet luxury and sharp silences. Misha didn’t speak. Not once. But I could feel the tension radiating off him, tight and caged, like a storm barely held at bay.

The Petrov estate outside Moscow was nothing like Yakutsk.

It was warm. Lived in. Heavy rugs softened every footfall. The scent of firewood and old books clung to the air. Paintings lined the walls, color, life, history. As if the house had been allowed to breathe.

Unlike the mausoleum he’d locked me in.

Vladimir Petrov waited for us in the study, a wide leather chair by the fire swallowing his frame. He looked like Misha, if Misha smiled more. If life hadn’t carved all the softness out of him.

“Luna,” he said with a smile, rising to greet me. His Russian accent was velvet-dipped steel. “Come. Sit.”

I obeyed, sitting on the edge of the chair like it might bite.

Misha lingered by the door until his father waved him off.