Page 92 of Sweet Obsession

Her eyes fluttered open again, this time a little wider, the edges of her lips lifting in the faintest of smiles. I could see it, the fight was still there, buried beneath the haze of her unconscious state, but it was there.

“Luna,” I murmured, my voice rough with desperation. “You’re going to be alright. You’re going to fight for us. I’ll never leave you.”

Her chest rose and fell with more steadiness now, a rhythm I clung to like a lifeline. But she seemed to be struggling to stay conscious, her eyes closing once again.

Don’t leave me, Luna. Don’t leave me now.

I kissed her hand again, then pressed my forehead to hers, closing my eyes for just a moment as the weight of everything threatened to crush me.

“I’m right here. Always.”

I wasn’t sure how long I stayed like that, my face against hers, her hand clenched in mine. But slowly, so slowly, I began to feelthe tiniest glimmer of hope. A flicker of life in her, something beyond the stillness.

I wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Luna was still here. And she was fighting.

LUNA

The days that bled together, blurred between darkness and light. The haze of unconsciousness was the only thing that shielded me from the searing pain. Yet even in the fog, I could feel him, Misha, always there. The subtle press of his presence beside me, the rhythm of his voice, low and soothing, even when I couldn’t respond. He spoke to me in those moments, as if hoping to pull me back from the abyss, to bring me home with nothing but his words.

It was impossible to ignore the toll it took on him. I could hear the exhaustion in his voice, the way it cracked with weariness, but he never left. Never.

How many hours had passed since he last slept? Days? He’d stayed by my side, stubborn as ever, refusing to leave, not even when his own body began to betray him.

I remembered the way his hand had felt on my cheek the moment I finally woke. His touch was tentative, unsure, as if he feared I might shatter under his fingers. His eyes, so tired, yet alive with something desperate, searched mine. In that instant, I almost forgot the pain he had caused me, the walls he’d built between us, the fire in his eyes when he had hurt me in Colombia. All of that, for a brief moment, vanished.

Misha had sacrificed so much for me, his time, his energy, his peace. I could see it now, clearer than before. Every bruise, every dark circle under his eyes was a reminder of what he had done. For me. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t out of guilt alone. Maybe it was something else, something darker and more dangerous.

I couldn’t keep blaming him. Not after everything he’d done. Not after how he’d fought to keep me alive.

But the pain was still there, buried under layers of confusion, resentment, and an ache I didn’t know how to name.

Now, as I sat up, the quiet hum of the safehouse surrounding me, I felt the weight of everything settling back onto my shoulders. The adrenaline of that night, the escape from Chernov and his men, the fear, it still buzzed in my veins.

And knowing my father had a hand in his brother’s death twisted something ugly in my gut.

I had to focus. I needed something to push away the chaos, to clear the fog of confusion swirling in my mind.

I found myself in the music room, the soft moonlight casting shadows on the piano keys. It had been a place of escape when I was younger, a safe haven before everything shattered. I ran my fingers across the cold keys, the notes soft, tentative, until the memory of Mama and our time together flooded me. It was the first melody I’d learned. A song of hope. Of love.

It wasn’t long before I heard him. Misha. His presence was always quiet, but it filled every corner of the room. He didn’t need to announce himself; I felt him, his energy pulling me toward him.

“You play,” he said, his voice rough, deep. It wasn’t a question.

I turned to face him, the words bitter on my tongue, a sharp reminder of the past. “I used to,” I replied, voice barely above a whisper. “Before you burned everything I treasure in Colombia. Before you made me your prisoner.”

The words stung, but they didn’t feel as sharp as they once did. They had lost their venom, and for that, I hated myself.

Misha stepped closer, eyes searching mine, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders, in the slight tremor of his hands.

“I regret it,” he said, the words guttural, raw. “Not taking you. I’ll never regret that, but the way I did it. I was afraid of loosing you, Luna..”

His words hung in the air like a confession, heavy and painful. His gaze dropped to the floor, and I saw something I had never expected: vulnerability. The man who once ruled with a cold, ruthless grip was undone by a single admission.

I stood to leave, but my foot caught on the edge of the rug, my body pitching forward. Misha’s hands were quick, his arms wrapping around me with a strength that steadied me.

“Watch your step, malyshka,” he murmured, his voice rough but gentle, the familiar growl in it grounding me. He pulled me close, and the warmth of his body seemed to chase away the cold that had settled in my bones.