Page 14 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

MISHA

Yakutsk, Two Days Later.

I slipped into her wing like I did every night. Quiet and uninvited, but unable to stay away. Just to make sure she was safe.

I’d seen the way she thrashed in her sleep, how her nightmares gripped her. And every time, I wished I could take it all away, whatever ghosts her past had left behind.

The room smelled like her, warm, earthy, addictive. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t ask her to move in. I’d chain myself to this room, to her scent, her silence.

I stood there for what felt like forever, watching her breathe, watching her rest. Then my gaze drifted to the far side of the room, where her handmade jewelry lay scattered, tangible pieces of her soul.

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to see that familiar flicker of confusion, wariness, and rage solidifying into something colder. I didn’t want to see her pain.

Because her pain did something to me. It twisted me up, made me reckless and weak.

I moved to the window, dragging a hand through my hair, jaw clenched tight, pretending I still had control.

She’d signed it. That twelve month marriage contract. A single signature. Her name in ink beside mine.

It should’ve felt like victory. Instead, it tasted like ash.

The fire crackled in the hearth behind us, too warm against my back. I kept my fingers pressed to the cold glass, breathing slow, controlled. Below us, my city lay in perfect silence, blanketed in snow and secrets.

Ours now. No, mine. At least, that’s what it had always been about.

Power, control, bloodless succession and becoming Pakhan not just of my father’s empire, but of all five Bratva families. Uniting them under one iron fist—mine.

And I was close. So fucking close I could taste it. One year. That was all I needed. A stable marriage. A loyal image. A way to sever ties with Rojas as a supplier and move everything through Mexico instead. Then Luna could walk away. I could become the boss of all bosses.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

But she did. God, she did. Every damn second since the first time I saw her, head high, eyes defiant, mouth set in a line that begged to be broken.

I still remember the first time I saw her at Bogotá.

A gas station just outside the city. Two of my men were bleeding on the pavement while she stood between them, her knuckles split and chest heaving, eyes burning with the fire of someone who had already survived hell, and dared me to send her back.

She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t broken. She looked lethal.

Like a blade someone had tried to bury in silk, but the edge was still sharp, and she’d learned how to cut.

I’d wanted her from the start. And I hated myself for it.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch the faintest reflection of her in the glass.

She lay curled on the bed, lost in sleep, hair spilling over the pillow like ink.

Her hands were tucked beneath her cheek, her breathing soft and steady.

She looked small, fragile, even, but Luna Rojas was anything but.

She was my weapon. My pawn. My ruin.

I didn’t go to her. Didn’t touch her. Because if I did, I wouldn’t stop.

And I couldn’t afford that. Not yet. Not when I still didn’t know what she was hiding. Not when she carried Stepan’s necklace. A black leather cord with a battered silver tag etched with two letters: S.P. It hadn’t left his neck until the day he was murdered.

I hadn’t said anything. I’d swallowed the storm. But the questions scraped like razors in my throat. Why did she have Stephan’s necklace?

How much did she know? Was this all a game? A slow, perfect vengeance?

I pressed harder against the window, blood rising in my temples.

Stepan, my brother had died for something I hadn’t yet uncovered. And now Luna, sweet, infuriating, irresistible Luna, might be the key to unlocking the truth.

The girl who crafted jewelry with trembling fingers. Who flinched when I touched her but stood tall in every room I tried to dominate. The girl who kept pretending she didn’t look at me when she thought I wasn’t watching.

But I saw it. I saw her watching. And God help me, I lived for it.

Her fear. Her defiance. Her quiet, reluctant pull toward me. This wasn’t just a game anymore. She was mine.

And the fucking irony? I was hers too.

Even if she never knew it. Even if I had to burn down everything between us to make her stay.

I dragged my eyes back to the snow beyond the glass, heart pounding too loud for a man raised to feel nothing.

“One year,” I muttered, low and dark. “Just one year.”

But in the silence that followed, I knew. I was already breaking the rules.

And when this burned, because it would, I would have no one to blame but myself.

The night that followed, I didn’t let her sleep in her wing. I locked the doors myself. For once, maybe just this one night, I needed her in my room. I couldn’t say why exactly, but maybe my heart already knew. She’d protested. I didn’t listen. I forced her here.

Maybe that made me the monster.

But monsters don’t bleed for ghosts. And every time I looked at her, I saw one.

She didn’t belong in my house. Didn’t belong in my bed.

But she was here. Curled beneath my sheets, trembling from a nightmare she wouldn’t speak of. She shifted, just enough for the blanket to slip from her shoulder, bruised from the fire, from the fall, from everything she wouldn’t admit had left a mark.

I hadn’t laid a hand on her. But my silence had. And silence, I’ve learned, cuts deeper than any blade.

She slept with her back to me. Curled up on the far side of the bed like I was the monster she’d been warned about.

I stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, listening to the quiet rise and fall of her breath, until it caught.

I turned my head. Watched the outline of her spine tremble. She didn’t make a sound. She never did. But her pain was loud in all the ways that mattered.

And still, I didn’t go to her. I couldn’t. Because if I touched her now, I wouldn’t stop at comfort. I’d pull her close. I’d make her mine. And I’d forget every damn reason I brought her here in the first place.

I hadn’t slept. Not in three days. Not since we left my father’s house in Moscow. Not since I found my brother’s necklace buried in her belongings. And now, she wore it around her neck like it belonged to her.

She didn’t know I’d seen it. She didn’t know I hadn’t stopped turning it over in my mind, again and again, like a curse I couldn’t shake.

Was it guilt that made her wear it? Grief? Or was it something far worse, a secret she’d die before confessing?

I shifted, slowly, the old mattress creaking beneath my weight. Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn around.

The silence between us was thick and bitter.

I hated how my body responded to her before my mind could stop it.

Nikolai knocked once before stepping in. “Sir Vladmir sent a message,” he said, low, handing me a folded note.

I took it without a word, fingers breaking the old wax seal with practiced violence. One glance and I nearly laughed.

Not out of amusement. Out of disbelief.

“My father is sending us to the Volograd estate?” I said, standing, voice cold. “He wants a show.”

Nikolai frowned. “You and the girl?”

“She’s not just a girl anymore,” I muttered. “She’s my wife now. At least until this is done.”

He read over the message. “He wants appearances. Reassurance to our allies. And no disruption until the estate project is completed.”

I looked back at the bed. At her.

Still pretending to sleep, but her fingers had curled into fists. She’d heard every word. Good. Let her feel it. The noose tightening.

We were bound now. For better or worse. Mostly worse.

“Get the SUV ready,” I said. “If we’re going to play house, we might as well make it convincing.”

The next morning, Viktor, my consigliere, older than most, trusted more than any, drove us through the frozen bones of Yakutsk toward the Volograd estate.

Snow blurred the edges of the world, softening the decay.

Luna sat beside me in silence, her arms wrapped tight across her chest, the sharp set of her jaw angled toward the window.

“This is the estate?” she asked, finally. Her breath fogged the glass.

“It was supposed to be a cultural center,” Viktor answered. “Before the wars. Before families like yours sold out the East. But now, we’ll turn it into something useful.”

Her brows knit. “And what exactly is ‘useful’?”

I smirked. “Money. Power. Stability. Everything your family pissed away.”

She didn’t reply. But her glare cut deep. Good. Let her hate me. Hatred was safe. Hatred meant I could keep my hands to myself.

We stepped inside.

Dust. Steel. Voices echoing off cracked marble. Dozens of workers moved like ants across the vast skeleton of the estate, laying wiring, hauling security systems, welding steel into new foundations.

A man leaned against one of the old pillars, arms crossed, smirking like he owned the ruin.

Chernov.

Odessa royalty. Heir to one of the Five Bratva families. The Odessa family controlled the eastern ports and half the black-market arms flowing through the Pacific corridor. They are ruthless and untouchable.

And just as powerful as me.

Chernov’s suit was sharp. He was there at the last Bratva council. Watching her then too. The way his eyes trailed her as she entered at my side, calculating and possessive.

Now, he was here again. Watching her like prey.

I saw him before Luna did. Saw the flicker of hunger in his gaze. And I stepped closer to her instinctively, shielding her with my body.

His smile sharpened when he noticed. “Misha,” he said, voice like oil on ice. “Back so soon. And you’ve brought your stunning bride again.”

His eyes didn’t leave her. Not for a second. “I have to say, she wears captivity beautifully.”

Luna stiffened beside me. I didn’t let him take another step.

“Careful,” I said, low and quiet. “You know how territorial I am.”