Page 12 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

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 his chest. 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.

“You can relax, son. I’m not going to interrogate your wife.”

Wife.

The word caught in my throat like broken glass. Not because I wanted it to be true... but because some traitorous part of me already knew it was.

Misha’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“You look too delicate for this world, Luna,” Vladimir said, turning his gaze to me. “But the most beautiful things often survive the harshest winters.”

My chest ached at the truth in it.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He poured two glasses of dark amber liquid. Passed one to me.

“To survival,” he said, lifting his glass.

I hesitated, then clinked mine gently against his.

From the corner of my eye, I felt Misha’s stare, watching. Always watching.

“What do you do with your time, tucked away in that frozen fortress?” Vladimir asked.

I flushed. “I... I make jewelry.”

Vladimir’s eyes lit with genuine delight.

“Art,” he said, as if tasting the word. “Beauty is rebellion. It fights back against coldness. Against fear.”

I smiled despite myself. The warmth in his voice tugged at something inside me I didn’t know still lived.

“Misha never told me he married an artist.”

Misha didn’t respond. But something sharp flickered across his face.

“You must show me your work,” Vladimir continued. “Perhaps I’ll find it... interesting.”

The lump in my throat tightened. Kindness felt dangerous. Disarming.

I nodded quickly, before emotion could betray me.

Vladimir leaned back, assessing us both with the kind of gaze that stripped through armor.

“And you,” he said to Misha, “should treat her better.”

Silence.

Misha’s jaw ticked. But he didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend himself.

Vladimir chuckled, shaking his head. “You confuse silence with strength, son. But sometimes, the strongest thing a man can do is reach out.”

Again, that flicker in Misha’s eyes. Softer. Unsettled.

After dinner, Vladimir rose and stretched lazily. “Stay five days. The house is large enough. You could use the warmth.”

I almost exhaled in relief. Any place but Yakutsk.

Misha didn’t argue. “Of course,” he said, stiff and careful. Like every word was a weapon he had to weigh before using.

Vladimir’s grin turned sly.

“You’ll share a room, naturally. As husband and wife should.”

My body went still.

Misha’s head whipped toward his father. “That’s not necessary,” he bit out, like the very idea repulsed him.

Something sharp twisted in my chest.

Vladimir raised an eyebrow. “I insist.”

The fire crackled.

Misha’s jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap.

And me? I couldn’t look at either of them. Because my mind was already racing, at the heat that would pour between us in a shared room. At the nearness. At what might happen when the walls came down... and there was no one left to blame for what we wanted.

Not even ourselves.

And just like that, it was decided.

Vladimir’s word landed like a verdict. No one argued. Not even Misha.

He just sighed and looked away, jaw tight.

It wasn’t resignation, it was control. The kind that barely held. Like he could shatter the room in half if he let himself feel for even a second.

Why didn’t he fight it? Why didn’t he say no? I wasn’t given time to wonder.

Dinner ended.

Vladimir waved a hand like a Roman emperor, and Misha was already guiding me down the hallway. Silent. Stern. Unreadable.

Five days.

Five nights.

One room.

God help me.

The door creaked open. He let me walk in first. Like a gentleman. Like a predator inviting prey into its cage.

It was a beautiful room, if you ignored the fact that it felt like a prison made of silk and gold.

Velvet drapes hung like royal cloaks at the tall windows. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing soft shadows over dark wood floors. The chandelier glittered overhead, too bright.

And in the center of it all, one bed. A king-sized monstrosity dressed in black silk. It gleamed in the firelight like it knew too much.

I stopped cold in the doorway.

He said nothing. Just walked past me, peeling off his blazer like it weighed more than it should. His movements were precise. Controlled. Lethal.

“This is not happening.” I muttered.

He didn’t bother to answer. Of course not.

Talking to Misha was like throwing knives at stone and hoping one would stick.

He sat at the desk, flipping through paperwork, as if I wasn’t glaring at the damn bed like it had personally offended me.

Fine.

I grabbed the armchair. Dragged it across the floor with stubborn defiance. Positioned it by the fire. Threw every blanket and pillow I could find onto it like a fortress.

He didn’t even blink.

Eventually, I collapsed onto it, arms crossed. Daring him to comment.

He didn’t.

Instead, he moved to the bed, sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled like a man deciding how many demons to let loose tonight.

“You’re sulking,” he said at last. Calm. Flat.

“I’m surviving.”

A flicker, barely there, crossed his mouth. Not a smirk. Something darker. Something haunted.

“Sleep wherever you want, malyshka,” he said. “But don’t expect me to move if you fall.”

The nerve of this man.

“You think I want to be anywhere near you?” I snapped.

That flicker deepened.

Still, he said nothing. Just leaned back on the bed like a king surveying his battlefield.

I turned away before I could throw something.

The fire cracked low. The storm outside whispered against the glass.

But inside me, something louder stirred. Something dangerous.

I didn’t know when I drifted to sleep. Didn’t know what pulled me awake. A sound? A shift in air? My heart beating too fast?

The fire had burned low. The bed was empty.

My breath caught.

There, by the window, stood Misha. Shirtless. Silent. Still.

A statue carved in shadow and cold light.

His back was a battlefield. Scars and muscle and violence.

The kind that told stories you didn’t ask to hear.

Smoke curled from the cigarette in his hand. A slow, ghostly prayer to gods who never listened.

He hadn’t noticed me. Or maybe he had and he just didn’t care.

I hesitated. “I’m not a monster, Misha. I don’t know what twisted you into this, but... maybe we could just try talking. Like actual humans.”

A long silence. Then, the ghost of a smile.

“Go to sleep, malyshka.”

I pulled my knees to my chest. “You’re afraid,” I whispered.

He turned slowly.

Leaned a shoulder against the frame, half-lit by moonlight. A wolf made of marble and memory.

“Not afraid,” he said. “But cowards created me.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I didn’t respond. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was soft. Lingering.

Then he spoke again, voice low, tired. “You wonder why I told you to stay that night?”

The night before we arrived here, when my nightmare had driven me from my room and found him in the living room by the bar, still awake.

“I do.”

He looked at me. Not past me. Not through me. At me.

“You’re affecting me.”

My breath caught. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“In a way no woman ever has.”

The air changed. “I want to trust you,” he said. “But betrayal taught me better. From those closest to me. Family. Blood.” A pause. “And now you.”