Page 10 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

Misha ignored them all, leading me through the sea of onlookers, his stride purposeful, slow, deliberate. He owned the space without saying a word, without having to do anything but exist.

Every man who mattered was here. Politicians, Bratva captains, men with too much power and not enough morals, their smiles cold and calculating.

And every single one of them stared at me, their gazes hungry, wondering what I was.

What he was doing with me.

Good. Let them wonder. Let them see that I wasn’t afraid. That I wasn’t just another pawn in a game I didn’t understand.

Halfway through the room, Misha’s hand slid around my waist, his fingers pressing firmly into my flesh, possessive and commanding. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, not from fear but from the shock of his touch.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was a claim.

I leaned into him, instinctively, tilting my face toward his like I couldn’t get enough of him.

A show. A damn convincing one.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine. His lips were so close, I could almost taste him.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his words sending heat rushing to my core.

My pulse skittered wildly.

“Don’t push it,” I whispered back, the smile on my face nothing more than a mask.

The man who stepped into our path was massive. Bald, thick-necked, with a jagged scar running down his face.

One of the Odessa heirs, probably. They were the Petrov’s biggest rivals.

“Petrov,” the man rumbled. His gaze slid to me, lingering far too long.

It made my skin crawl.

“And this must be your beautiful new acquisition.”

I caught the venom in his words, even if I couldn’t fully grasp the weight behind them.

I felt Misha stiffen beside me. The air around us grew sharp, cold.

“My wife,” Misha said, his voice dangerously low. “Show some respect.”

The man chuckled, slow and oily. “Of course. My apologies.” He raised his glass mockingly, his eyes never leaving me.

“To wives. And to debts that last a lifetime.” The undercurrent of the words was clear to Misha and he didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them with terrifying ease. His presence, lethal and suffocating.

“Be careful, Chernov,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. “You’re very close to making a mistake you can’t come back from.”

The man faltered, his defiance crumbling under Misha’s cold gaze. His smirk faded, and he dipped his head, backing off slowly.

And just like that, the threat was gone.

Misha turned to me then, his hand tightening at my waist, pulling me closer.

“Never show your fear,” he said under his breath, his words rough and dangerous. “Not even if you’re bleeding.”

I met his gaze, my heart pounding. “Good thing I’ve been bleeding all my life,” I said, and I meant it.

His eyes darkened, flickering with something unreadable. For a moment, it almost looked like admiration.

Later that night, when the event was over and we returned to the mansion, I slipped away from Misha’s side, heading toward the north wing. My wing, my heels clicking softly against the marble.

But before I could make it far, I heard his voice behind me, low and dangerous.

“Luna.”

I froze.

I fought the urge to run. Instead, I turned slowly, folding my arms across my chest.

“What?” I said, sharper than necessary.

He took a step closer, closing the gap between us until the air felt thick, electric. The tension was suffocating.

“You held yourself well tonight,” he said simply, his voice rough.

A strange knot tightened in my throat. Pride. Rage. I didn’t know anymore.

“Glad to know I met your standards,” I said dryly.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but almost. “But next time,” he added, his voice a low murmur that slid across my skin like silk, “when a man stares too long, lean into me.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

He took another deliberate step forward, his chest brushing mine, his voice a deadly promise. “Let them see how untouchable you are. Let them wonder if they’d survive trying.”

The meaning hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t just about playing house. It was a message. Touch her, and you die.

I swallowed hard. “So I’m not a bride,” I said quietly. “I’m bait.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t soften. Misha Petrov never softened.

He just stood there, towering over me, looking at me as if he already knew the wars he would fight in my name.

“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 on edge, 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.

An almost.

A not-yet.

A temptation too dangerous to name.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words got caught in my throat.

I wanted to ask why he came through for me so many times in Colombia.

Why he had been my unexpected protector, my knight in shining armor, despite all the mystery surrounding him.

But here... he was something different. Cold.

Detached. Almost unreachable. Had he always been like this, or had something or someone turned him into the monster before me?

The silence was suffocating, pressing in on me from all sides.

“I should leave,” I said, my voice shaky. “We’ll see tomorrow.”

I turned, hoping he would stop me. Hoping he’d ask me why I wanted to leave so soon, especially when just minutes ago, he had demanded I stay.

I took the first step.

Then the second.

But he didn’t say a word.

The weight of his gaze lingered on my back, but his words never came until I was nearly out of sight.

The next morning, Sofia knocked on my door, holding a black dress bag.

“Senor Petrov requests your presence in the main salon. Important visitors,” she said stiffly.

Visitors?

I frowned, shrugging into the sleek black dress inside the bag. It hugged my body like a second skin, sharp enough to make a statement but modest enough to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

At least the armor matched the battlefield.