Page 16 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

MISHA

When I got word that Chernov and his brothers had arrived, I was in the east wing living room, just down the stairs.

I expected Luna to stay in her room, hidden, quiet, safe.

But she didn’t. She came down barefoot, wearing one of my shirts and a pair of bum shorts, her legs bare and golden, her hair falling in loose waves down her back.

A fucking vision. My jaw locked.

“What the hell are you wearing?” I growled, low and sharp.

She blinked at me, pretending innocence. “It’s my house too, isn’t it?”

“Go change.”

Her brows lifted. “Why? You embarrassed of me, dorogoy?”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. She could already see the tension rippling under my skin. She left with a shrug, hips swaying deliberately as she disappeared up the stairs.

The front gates opened minutes later.

Chernov entered first, flanked by his younger brothers, Lev and Alexei. All of them dressed like wolves pretending to be men. Sharp coats. Sharp smiles. Eyes that took inventory the moment they crossed the threshold.

“Petrov,” Chernov greeted smoothly. “Beautiful estate. And I hear congratulations are in order.”

He didn’t need to say her name. It was implied in the tilt of his mouth. The glance he cast toward the stairs.

Before I could respond, she came back.

Luna.

Changed?

No.

Worse.

She’d stayed in the same damn outfit, but now her hair was up and she wore one of my rings on her finger.

She walked in like smoke and honey, barefoot, all legs and lethal calm. Then, like she owned the place, she slid beside me, draping one arm across my chest. Leaned in. Kissed the corner of my mouth.

Not a chaste kiss. A possessive one. The kind that made Chernov’s smile strain at the edges.

“Gentlemen,” she said softly. “Welcome to our home.”

My hand slid around her waist, gripping hard. Possessive. Real.

She pressed into me even more, letting her cheek rest against my shoulder as if we were lovers, not enemies.

Lev couldn’t stop staring at her legs.

I didn’t like that.

Chernov’s fingers twitched against his glass, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his molars crack.

The room was tense. Thick with unspoken war.

Chernov finally dropped into the chair across from me, letting the cigar burn between his fingers untouched.

“We want in on the Volograd pipeline,” he said. “Full distribution rights for the southern corridor. In exchange, we’ll offer port access in Odessa. All of them.”

That made Viktor stiffen behind me. Even I blinked. Every Bratva family would kill for that kind of leverage.

I stared at him. Then at Luna.

Her lips brushed my jaw, feigning affection, but her body was rigid. She was playing her part. Spitefully and brilliantly.

Chernov’s eyes followed her every movement. And I knew, he didn’t want the ports. He wanted her. He was just using the ports to get close enough to strike.

“It’s a tempting offer,” I said coldly. “But it reeks of a ploy to get close to my wife, so the answer’s no.”

He smiled. “You think too small, Misha. We both want the same thing, power. You know the other families won’t stand against us if we stand together.”

I leaned forward, voice like cut glass.

“I don’t share my weapons. Or my woman.”

A beat of silence. Then Luna, still pressed to me, said softly, “And I don’t bed vermin.”

Chernov’s face twitched.

Lev laughed under his breath, and Alexei looked away like he’d smelled blood.

“I’d choose your next words carefully,” I warned him.

Chernov stood, smile gone. “You’ll regret this.”

“No,” I said, rising with him. “You will.”

They left. Silent and furious.

Luna turned to me once the doors shut behind them.

“I thought you’d be happy. I played the perfect little wife.”

I stared at her. Then I grabbed her wrist, dragging her back into the study, slamming the door behind us.

“Are you insane?” I rasped. “Coming down like that in front of them? Dressed like this?”

She ripped her arm away. “What are you going to do, lock me up? Chain me to your desk?”

My breath was fire. My blood hotter.

I shoved her against the bookshelf. Not hard. But hard enough that her breath hitched.

“Do you think this is a game?” I snarled. “You think walking around like that is safe? You think men like Chernov look at you and see a woman? They see a fucking prize.”

“Then why don’t you treat me like one?” she shot back.

I froze.

She was breathing hard. So was I.

Then I kissed her.

No warning. Rough. Furious. Starved.

She gasped into my mouth, then kissed me back, biting my bottom lip like she wanted to hurt me.

I hoisted her up, slamming her back to the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist.

But I stopped.

Teeth gritted. Breath ragged.

She stared at me, dazed, pupils blown wide.

“Does the name ‘Stepan’ sound familiar to you?” I asked.

The world fell silent. She went cold in my arms. A flicker of something dark passed behind her eyes.

“Stepan?” she said softly. “Never heard it.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Her mouth trembled. And for the first time since I met her, she looked afraid.

Real fear. Not of me. But of the name. The ghost it dragged back to life.

LUNA

He kissed me again, like he hated me.

Rough. Starving. Possessive.

His mouth crushed mine with bruising pressure, his fingers tangled in my hair like he couldn’t decide whether to hold me close or push me away.

My back hit the wall of the hallway, a thud that made my breath stutter.

Somewhere upstairs, the fire still cracked.

But down here, it was all heat and sharp edges.

“Misha...” I gasped into his mouth, but he didn’t let me finish. His lips moved to my throat, biting the skin just hard enough to remind me that this wasn’t tenderness.

This was punishment.

For lying.

For wanting him.

For both.

“You’re hiding something,” he growled against my skin. “You flinch when I say his name. Stepan.”

I froze. Not from fear. But because the name felt like a blade pressed to my chest. He pulled back slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet. His were glacial, burning with questions he hadn’t asked before now.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice low and lethal. “What did he do to you?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. The words were ash on my tongue. I wasn’t ready to say it. Not like this. Not under his gaze that peeled away everything I’d worked so hard to bury.

He stared at me, jaw tight.

Then, slowly, as if it physically pained him, he stepped back. The space between us felt colder than Siberia.

“You don’t want to tell me?” he said quietly. “Fine. But I will find out. And when I do...” His voice dipped into something darker. “I won’t be gentle.”

He turned and disappeared, his footsteps fading into the stone silence of the estate. I slumped against the wall, hands trembling. My skin still burned from where he’d touched me. And now... my secrets burned too.

I should have hated him more after tonight.

But somehow, I hated myself more.

The estate was too quiet again.

It always was after arguments with Misha.

It was like the walls themselves held their breath, waiting to see who would crack first.

I wandered down the hallways, my bare feet skimming over heated stone floors, trailing my fingers along the cold marble walls, feeling the way this place swallowed people whole.

I didn’t know what possessed me to go into the kitchen.

Maybe it was the homesickness.

Maybe it was the need to feel useful, alive.

I found a half-stocked pantry, some flour, eggs, a few bruised vegetables from whatever winter garden managed to survive the permafrost.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

The dough clung stubbornly to my fingers. The stove was ancient and made ominous groaning sounds when I lit it.

But it gave me something to focus on.

I didn’t hear him come in. I just felt it, the sudden pressure in the room, like the air had thickened.

I turned and froze. Misha leaned against the far counter, arms crossed, watching me.

Still in black slacks and a dark sweater. Still looking like something carved out of Siberian stone.

Not speaking. Just watching.

Heat flushed up my neck, stupidly embarrassed to be caught elbow-deep in dough by a man who probably hadn’t cooked a meal for himself in years.

“What,” I muttered, “never seen a woman make pierogi before?”

He didn’t answer.

Just pushed off the counter, came closer.

I stiffened automatically, but he didn’t touch me.

Instead, he reached for a second rolling pin tucked into a drawer, one I hadn’t even noticed, dusted it off, and began to help.

No words. Just movements.

Efficient. Silent. Brooding.

For some reason, the sight of Misha fucking Petrov rolling dough like some grim mafia Gordon Ramsay almost broke something in my chest.

I turned away quickly, blinking fast.

He said nothing.

Just kept working beside me, shoulder brushing mine every so often, his heat leeching into my skin.

I noticed the way his hands faltered over the dough, just for a second. The flicker in his eyes.

Like the texture, the weight of it, pulled something buried up from the dark. Something he didn’t want to feel.

I hated that every movement of his,every inch of him, was so maddeningly magnetic.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was just strategy. Or maybe, maybe there was a crack in the ice after all.

Later that evening, after the pierogi disaster, after we burned half and still ate them in stiff, loaded silence, I found myself in the sitting room, threading tiny beads into a necklace.

It was muscle memory by now. The only thing that ever really calmed me. The only thing that ever felt mine. The fire crackled low in the hearth. My fingers moved in rhythm with the quiet, delicate and focused, until I felt it again.

That shift in the room. That cold ripple in the air that only came when he was near. I didn’t need to look up.

But I did. His shadow fell across my lap, and when my eyes met his, he was already holding something out toward me.

Not a weapon. Not a command. A photograph. Faded and wrinkled at the edges.