Page 22 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

Even staying in Misha’s wing felt like punishment. The marble floors were cold under my feet, the walls too quiet, like they were listening. Four days since Colombia. Four days since he locked me in here. And still, the scent of smoke haunted me.

He’d burned everything. I hated him for it. For turning my grief into ash. I left my room, silk robe tied tight, tea mug in hand, and wandered down the hall. I didn’t make it far.

I turned a corner, and slammed into him.

The tea spilled, scalding amber against his crisp white shirt. My breath caught. Misha didn’t flinch. He just stared down at me, his pale eyes like ice under fire.

“Luna,” he said, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I didn’t know you were there,” I said quickly, backing away. Then the bitterness rose. “Maybe if you didn’t keep me locked in this velvet coffin, I wouldn’t be spilling tea on you.”

His lips twitched, barely. Like he found me amusing. That only made it worse.

He undid his shirt slowly, peeling it off like it was nothing. Scars stretched across his chest, sharp reminders of the life he lived. “It’s just a shirt,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

My body betrayed me, shivering, not from cold. From the echo of his voice in Colombia. The heat of him.

“I’m not cold. I’m furious,” I said, my voice sharp with grief. “You destroyed everything that matters the most to me.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, rage and sorrow tangling in my throat. “You even almost touched my sister. How am I supposed to feel anything but hate?”

He stepped closer. Not fast. Deliberate. Like a predator with time to kill.

“You ran,” he said. “To you, it was freedom. To me, it was betrayal. You think I’d just let you go? After what we’ve shared?”

“You don’t get to decide that!” My voice cracked. “You can’t burn down my life and expect me to fall into your arms.”

But I didn’t move when he reached for me. I didn’t stop him when he brushed my hair from my face. I hated that part of me, the part that still wanted to feel something other than grief.

I looked at his chest. One scar, above his heart, pulled me in. A brutal line. I hated him. I hated what he’d done. But that scar, raw, angry, human, mocked me with the reminder that monsters bleed too.

“What happened here?” I whispered, fingers brushing it before I could stop myself.

“Moscow,” he said. “A man tried to take what was mine. He failed.”

His hand covered mine, holding it to his chest. I could feel the beat of his heart. Steady. Strong. Too human for a man like him.

I yanked away. “You take. That’s all you do. You fight. You burn. But what about me, Misha? What about what I want?”

He leaned in, caging me in with his arms on either side of the counter. His breath warmed my cheek.

“I see you, Luna,” he murmured. “The fire in you. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

His lips grazed my temple. Soft. Almost tender.

I hated how much I wanted to fall into him.

But then I remembered Colombia.

I pushed him away, hands shaking. “You don’t see me. You see a possession. I can’t forgive you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stared, silent. He hesitated like the words tasted wrong in his mouth. “Then I’ll wait,” he said finally, voice rough. “As long as it takes.”

Hours later, the memory of Misha’s arms around me in the kitchen wouldn’t leave me alone. His voice—“ I’ll wait as long as it takes” echoed in my skull like a threat I didn’t know how to handle.

My anger hadn’t faded. It burned steady, fed by the wreckage he left behind in Colombia. But beneath that fire was something worse, something soft and wanting. Something that felt like need.

I slipped out of my room, the silk of my nightgown brushing my thighs, a shawl hanging loose around my shoulders. Barefoot, I wandered the halls like a ghost, searching for silence.

The library door creaked open under my touch. I expected darkness.

Instead, I found him.

Misha sat in a leather armchair near the fireplace, one leg bent lazily, a book open in his hands. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Hair a mess like he’d clawed through it. He looked up, those pale eyes catching fire in the low light and my breath caught.

“Luna.” His voice was deep, sleep-rough. “Can’t sleep?”

I held my shawl tighter around me, like it could shield me from the gravity between us. “Didn’t expect you here,” I said. “Figured you’d be off planning your next war. Or burning someone else’s life down.”

The blow landed. I saw it in the way his jaw tensed, in the flicker in his eyes. But he didn’t flinch. “I’m not always the villain,” he said, closing the book, his voice level. “Sometimes I just read.”

I glanced at the cover, Pushkin , in Russian, and frowned. “Poetry?” I asked, surprised despite myself. “Didn’t think you had that kind of soul.”

He gave a half-smile, the kind that made something twist low in my belly. “Stepan loved it. He used to read it to me when we were kids. I didn’t understand it back then. Now...” His voice drifted, and I hated that it made him human.

I walked along the shelves, brushing my fingers across the spines. I needed distance, but I was drifting closer instead. When I reached for a book, his hand touched mine.

Heat surged.

I flinched, but he caught my wrist, gentle, but firm. His thumb traced my pulse. My breath hitched.

“Don’t run from me,” he said, eyes dark, voice low.

I pulled back, the contact severed like a snapped thread. My shawl slipped to the floor, leaving me exposed in the thin silk. Cold air kissed my skin. “I’m not running,” I said, but my voice shook. “But I can’t forget what you did.”

I met his eyes, full of fury, grief, and everything I still hadn’t said.

“You torched everything I had left of my mother,” I whispered. “You didn’t just burn paintings, Misha. You burned me.”

Silence.

“And Yuri’s family home,” I went on, sharp now. “Innocent people. My sketches...”

He stood slowly. No threats. No smirk. Just the quiet shift of power between us. “I don’t know how to fix that,” he said, voice rough. “But I want to try.”

He stepped too close, and the scent of him wrapped around me, smoke and pine and danger. “I want to know you, Luna. The real you. Not the girl I stole. Not the woman who hates me. Just you.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch so light it barely existed. And still, I hated how much I leaned into it.

“And you think you can get to know me this way? By forcing me to become yours?” I whispered, backing away, snatching the shawl like a shield. “You don’t know the girl who sat in the courtyard stringing beads beside her mother. Who dreamed of art. Of a life where she wasn’t a pawn.”

“That girl isn’t gone,” he said, stepping forward. “I see her every time you fight me. Every time you protect someone else, even when you’re breaking.”

His thumb caught a tear I didn’t know had fallen.

“Let me in, Luna.”

His voice wasn’t soft. It was commanding. Not a plea, a demand from someone who already thought he owned the pieces of me I was still trying to keep.

I pressed a hand to his chest—his heartbeat steady, strong. I hated how I leaned into his warmth like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

“I don’t know how,” I breathed. “How to let you in without losing myself.”

His hands slid to my waist, dragging me closer until I felt the heat of him everywhere. His forehead touched mine. “You just have to try, Malyshka.””

His lips brushed my forehead, tender, reverent. It made my knees weak. Made my walls crack.

And for one second, I believed him.

He pulled back, but his hands stayed on me like he couldn’t let go. His expression shifted, harder now. “Chernov’s been too quiet,” he said, voice darker. “He won’t stop. Not until he’s taken everything I have. And right now, that’s you.”

My chest went still.

“I don’t care if you trust me,” he went on. “But Chernov, he’s worse than me in every way that counts.”

My heart thudded, remembering the burner phone in my drawer. The message. Meet me at Gorod warehouse. A chance I didn’t dare take. A betrayal I hadn’t decided on.

I said nothing.

Just stepped back, fingers trembling as I reached for a book, anything to ground myself. Misha reached for the same one. His fingers brushed mine again, slower this time. Deliberate.

Then his hand brushed against my hip, casual, almost careless, but it set me on fire.

“This one,” he said. A Pushkin collection. His voice softened. “Stepan’s favorite. It’s the only one that still gets to me.”

His eyes locked on mine. And I shattered. My heart pounding like I’d run a marathon barefoot through snow.

His fingers slid lower, light but deliberate, until they grazed the bare skin of my thigh through the slit in my nightgown. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just enough to remind me who he was. Who I was.

My breath hitched. I didn’t stop him.

“I should hate you,” I said. But my voice was dust. Weak.

“I know,” he said

His hand slid back to my waist. Gentle now. Steady. Anchoring.

“I’m tired,” I mumbled, stepping back fast. I didn’t wait for his reply. I walked out before he could touch me again, before I forgot what he’d done, before I let him rewrite the truth.

Because I shouldn’t feel anything for a man like Misha.

But I did.

The Next Morning, I padded down the stairs in one of his old shirts, too big on me, the hem brushing my thighs. The cotton clung to my skin with each breath, and I hated how it felt like a claim.

Misha stood by the stove, setting down bread, cheese, and a steaming pot of borscht like this was some kind of domestic dream and not a waking nightmare. The scent curled through the room, earthy, rich. Too warm.

His pale eyes cut to mine. “You’re late.”

I folded my arms, voice flat, laced with venom. “Didn’t know I had a schedule.”

“You didn’t,” he said smoothly, nodding at the chair across from him. “I just thought you’d starve sulking in your room.”