Page 82 of Sweet Obsession

“Don’t run from me,” he said, eyes dark, voice low.

I pulled back, the contact severed like a snapped thread. My shawl slipped to the floor, leaving me exposed in the thin silk. Cold air kissed my skin. “I’m not running,” I said, but my voice shook. “But I can’t forget what you did.”

I met his eyes, full of fury, grief, and everything I still hadn’t said.

“You torched everything I had left of my mother,” I whispered. “You didn’t just burn paintings, Misha. You burned me.”

Silence.

“And Yuri’s family home,” I went on, sharp now. “Innocent people. My sketches...”

He stood slowly. No threats. No smirk. Just the quiet shift of power between us. “I don’t know how to fix that,” he said, voice rough. “But I want to try.”

He stepped too close, and the scent of him wrapped around me, smoke and pine and danger. “I want to know you, Luna. Thereal you. Not the girl I stole. Not the woman who hates me. Just you.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch so light it barely existed. And still, I hated how much I leaned into it.

“And you think you can get to know me this way? By forcing me to become yours?” I whispered, backing away, snatching the shawl like a shield. “You don’t know the girl who sat in the courtyard stringing beads beside her mother. Who dreamed of art. Of a life where she wasn’t a pawn.”

“That girl isn’t gone,” he said, stepping forward. “I see her every time you fight me. Every time you protect someone else, even when you’re breaking.”

His thumb caught a tear I didn’t know had fallen.

“Let me in, Luna.”

His voice wasn’t soft. It was commanding. Not a plea, a demand from someone who already thought he owned the pieces of me I was still trying to keep.

I pressed a hand to his chest—his heartbeat steady, strong. I hated how I leaned into his warmth like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

“I don’t know how,” I breathed. “How to let you in without losing myself.”

His hands slid to my waist, dragging me closer until I felt the heat of him everywhere. His forehead touched mine. “You just have to try, Malyshka.””

His lips brushed my forehead, tender, reverent. It made my knees weak. Made my walls crack.

And for one second, I believed him.

He pulled back, but his hands stayed on me like he couldn’t let go. His expression shifted, harder now. “Chernov’s been too quiet,” he said, voice darker. “He won’t stop. Not until he’s taken everything I have. And right now, that’s you.”

My chest went still.

“I don’t care if you trust me,” he went on. “But Chernov, he’s worse than me in every way that counts.”

My heart thudded, remembering the burner phone in my drawer. The message.Meet me at Gorod warehouse.A chance I didn’t dare take. A betrayal I hadn’t decided on.

I said nothing.

Just stepped back, fingers trembling as I reached for a book, anything to ground myself. Misha reached for the same one. His fingers brushed mine again, slower this time. Deliberate.

Then his hand brushed against my hip, casual, almost careless, but it set me on fire.

“This one,” he said. A Pushkin collection. His voice softened. “Stepan’s favorite. It’s the only one that still gets to me.”

His eyes locked on mine. And I shattered. My heart pounding like I’d run a marathon barefoot through snow.

His fingers slid lower, light but deliberate, until they grazed the bare skin of my thigh through the slit in my nightgown. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just enough to remind me who he was. Who I was.

My breath hitched. I didn’t stop him.