Page 75 of Sweet Obsession

Then she said, cold as the Colombian earth under our feet: “You don’t own me.”

I smiled. Dark. Cruel. Certain. “We’ll see.”

I turned to the crowd, raised a single hand.

“Everyone not blood,” I said, “leave now.”

The crowd scattered like ash in the wind, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth. Yuri’s mother clutched her rosary, her sobs fading as she stumbled down the hill with the priest.

The Rojas guards hesitated, their hands twitching toward holsters, but a single glance from Nikolai flanked by my five hundred shadows, sent them retreating.

Even Luna’s father, that spineless weasel, backed away, his protests dying in his throat as he realized the weight of my presence. The cemetery emptied until it was just us: me, Luna, and the ghost of the boy who thought he could take her from me.

Only my soldiers remained in the shadows, eyes averted, backs turned. There were no witnesses now.

Yuri’s grave lay open, a gash in the earth, his polished wooden casket gleaming under the overcast sky. A single white lily rested on its lid, its petals bruised from the morning’s drizzle.

The headstone readYuri Andres Salazar, 1998–2025, the dates carved with a precision that mocked the chaos of his end. I didn’t care who mourned him.

Luna stood like a queen in mourning, defiant in black. Her veil fluttered around her face, and I could see the skin where Stepan’s necklace used to rest.

My jaw ticked. I stepped closer, lowering my voice.

“You thought you could run,” I said, my voice low, a blade wrapped in silk. “You thought Colombia would hide you. That Chernov could shield you.” I tilted my head, studying the way her lips parted. “You were wrong.”

Her breath hitched, so slight it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else.

“You left me,” I murmured. “Like I meant nothing. Like we meant nothing. Did you forget my very first warning? That running from me would have consequences?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak. She stood there, a statue of obsidian and fury, her veil catching the faint light filtering through the clouds.

The wind tugged at her dress, plastering it to her legs. My eyes lingered too long. I hated that. Hated how even now, after everything, I wanted her.

She’d ripped something out of me when she left.

And now I was going to take it back.

I circled her slowly, the mud soft under my boots. “You came here to mourn him?” I asked, voice low. “To cry over a boy who died trying to take what’s mine?”

I stopped behind her. Close enough to hear her breath hitch.

“You don’t get to mourn him, Luna. You don’t get to choose him over me.”

Her head snapped toward me. The veil slipped, revealing her jaw, her fire. “I didn’t choose him,” she said, her voice sharp. “I chose myself. I chose to be free. From you. From the lies. From pretending I was your wife while dying inside your golden cage.”

Her hands clenched. “You don’t own me, Misha.”

I stepped in. Grabbed her wrist. Pulled her hard against me.

“You’re wrong,” I whispered near her ear. “You just don’t know it yet.”

She struggled, but I felt the heat in her. The pull. She hated me, but she felt me.

“You ran to his grave,” I said, voice like steel. “So I’ll remind you who you belong to. Right here. Where he can’t touch you. Can’t save you.”

“You’re sick,” she breathed, eyes wild.

“Maybe,” I said. “But you’re mine.”