Page 23 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

“Nice of you to care,” I snapped, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. “But I’m not hungry. Especially not for whatever you’ve handled.”

Misha didn’t rise to the bait. He pulled out the chair anyway. “Sit, Luna.”

That voice, command with the faintest edge of softness. I hated that it worked. I sat, tension radiating off me.

He served me. Didn’t eat himself. Just watched. I hated the way he looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I haunted him.

“Why do you keep doing this?” I asked, low. “You could have anyone. Why bother with me?”

Misha leaned in. Shadows under his eyes, fingers clasped like he was praying. “Because you don’t pretend. You hate me and still you stay. You make me feel like I’m not beyond saving.”

He glanced down. “Stepan used to look at me like that too... before I lost him.”

The name hit like ice water. I set my spoon down, knuckles whitening.

“I dream of my mother,” I said. “Before you scorched her memory off the earth.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Then he reached across the table. not for my hand, but for the glass beside me. His fingers grazed my thigh under the table, deliberate, slow, before curling around the glass.

I jerked back, knees knocking the edge. The glass fell and shattered between us.

I swore and dropped to my knees, reaching instinctively, and his hand caught mine before I could bleed. His grip was firm, warm, rough.

“Don’t,” he said, his thumb brushing along the inside of my wrist. “You don’t need to bleed for this.”

He crouched with me, body too close. My pulse thudded as I stared into his face, into the part of him that wasn’t Bratva, wasn’t a monster. Just a man with tired eyes and blood on his hands.

“Why do you keep giving me pieces of you?” I whispered. “When all I’ve ever done is try to escape you?”

“Because I can’t stop,” he said, voice scraping low. “Because when you’re near, I feel like I could be something else. Something... more.”

He pressed his forehead to mine, breath fanning over my lips.

His hand curled around my waist, pulling me in, and I didn’t push him away. I just stood there, trembling, caught in the gravity of everything I wasn’t ready to admit.

“I still hate you,” I murmured.

“I know.” His mouth brushed my temple. “But you’re here.”

And I was. God help me, I was.

Seven Days Later.

Misha drove us to a safehouse without a word. When we arrived, he turned to me, jaw tight. “I need to look through Stepan’s things. I think you’re connected to this. I need to know how.”

I should’ve told him to go to hell. But his pain mirrored mine too closely.

Inside, dust floated like ash. He opened a box with reverent hands, tracing old watches, worn gloves, photos curled at the edges like ghosts.

I helped, our arms brushing, then tangling when we reached for the same letter. His hand settled over mine. Heavy. Hot.

My breath caught.

I opened the letter.

“ Misha, I’m in Colombia. The deal with Rojas went south. Luis betrayed us, Vargas has us. If I don’t make it out, watch your back. I love you.”

Luis, My father.

The paper dropped from my fingers like it burned.

“My father... he helped kill your brother.”

Misha froze. Then his eyes found mine, full of something dangerous, something breaking.

“You didn’t know,” he said, brushing a tear off my cheek with the back of his hand. “You were just a girl.”

I let him hold me. Let the guilt crush me against his chest.

“We shouldn’t stay long,” Misha muttered, his voice low and urgent. “Too many ghosts know these roads.”

And then, just as I thought the world might stop, the windows shattered.

Gunfire. Glass exploded.

Misha threw me down, shielding me with his body as bullets tore through the room.

“Vargas cartel,” he growled, pulling a gun from his waistband, his eyes scanning the room as shadows moved outside, men shouting in Spanish, their voices a chilling echo of Yuri’s funeral.

Fear clawed at my throat, but Misha’s presence grounded me, his hand finding mine, squeezing it as he whispered, “Stay with me, Luna.”

We crawled behind a crate, the gunfire deafening, and I grabbed a rusted pipe from the floor, my hands shaking but my resolve steel as I met his gaze, a silent agreement passing between us.

We fought together, Misha’s shots precise, deadly, while I swung the pipe at a man who got too close, the crack of metal against bone a sickening sound that made my stomach lurch.

Misha tackled another, his knife flashing as he protected me, and I pulled him back from a stray bullet, my hands on his shoulders, our breaths ragged, our bodies pressed close as the last of the attackers fell.

It was over in seconds.

Outside, snow soaked red. Misha stood over the bodies like a god of war, eyes blazing. Then he turned to me, hands trembling as they framed my face.

He looked at me like he didn’t know whether to thank me or tear the world apart for dragging me into this.

“You’re alive,” he breathed. “You’re safe.”

His lips brushed mine. Not a kiss. A tremor.

And I let him.

“Because of you,” I whispered, my grip tightening on his coat.

Then I saw it. His shoulder was bleeding. Not deep, but enough to soak through the fabric of his shirt, a dark stain spreading across the cotton like a shadow, stark against the paleness of his skin.

“You’re hurt,” I whispered, my heart skipping a beat at the sight.

Misha barely flinched, his gaze never wavering as he wiped the blood from his hand. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice low, casual. He turned away from me, as if to downplay it, but the blood was a stark contrast to the calm he tried to project.

“No,” I insisted, stepping closer, my voice a little sharper than I intended. “Let me see.”

He hesitated, his jaw clenching, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable that made him pause just long enough for me to close the distance between us. Slowly, I reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal the wound.

The sight of it, raw and bleeding, the small, dark puncture in his skin, made my stomach lurch. But it wasn’t just the injury that hit me. It was the fact that he didn’t want to show weakness. The fact that, in a moment like this, he still tried to protect me from the truth.

“It’s not that bad,” he murmured, his breath shaky now, a slight tremor in his hand as he pulled back.

I didn’t care. I pressed my fingers to the wound, a touch softer than I intended, and he sucked in a breath, his eyes narrowing in warning, but not pulling away.

“You’re still bleeding,” I said quietly, my voice thick with a mix of concern and something deeper. “And you won’t let me help you.”

Misha’s gaze flicked to mine, and for the first time, I didn’t want to fight him. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

“I’m not the one you need to worry about,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve lived with worse.”

“I know,” I replied, my voice soft. “But I still care.”

His eyes softened, and for a brief second, his guard was down, vulnerability etched into the hard planes of his face. Then, just as quickly, he masked it again, the wall rising between us once more.

“Then help me,” he said, his voice almost a command, but there was something different about it this time. A quiet plea.

I nodded, my fingers trembling as I pressed the fabric of his shirt back into place. “I will.”

I nodded, glancing around the room for something, anything to help stop the bleeding.

The safehouse was sparse, but there was a cupboard on the far wall.

I crossed the room quickly, rifling through it until I found a small first-aid kit, then turned back to Misha, who was standing, stiff, still trying to mask the pain.

“Sit down,” I ordered, my tone more demanding now. It was clear he wasn’t going to take care of this on his own, and I was done waiting.

He gave me a hard look but obeyed, lowering himself onto the old, cracked chair in the corner.

I moved quickly, wiping away the blood with a damp cloth, my hands shaking slightly as I worked.

The wound wasn’t deep, but it needed pressure.

I wrapped a gauze bandage tightly around his shoulder, my fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.

He flinched, but didn’t speak, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes on the floor.

“Stay still,” I murmured, the urgency in my voice more than I meant it to be. The tension between us was palpable, the vulnerability of this moment hanging heavy.

When I finished, I pressed the bandage down one final time, looking up at him. “You’re going to be okay,” I said, more to convince myself than him.

Misha didn’t respond immediately. He just sat there, his face hard, his eyes guarded. Then, with a grunt of effort, he stood, testing the weight on his shoulder. The pain was clearly there, but he hid it well.

“Thanks,” he muttered after a long pause, his voice rough.

I nodded, wiping my hands on my pants, not sure what to say next. The silence between us was thick now, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... real.

“You shouldn’t go out there again without a doctor,” I said, breaking the silence with practical concern. “I can find someone. A local... or someone we trust.”

“We’ll take care of it later,” he said, his tone firm.

I took a step back, giving him space while making a mental note to find a proper doctor before the day was done. “We need to get out of here before the rest of them show up.”

“Agreed,” he replied.

While returning back from the warehouse, I glanced up at Misha, the lines of his jaw set hard, his eyes scanning the horizon.

And then, we saw them.

At the far end of the road, where the streetlights flickered weakly in the dusk, three figures stood silhouetted against the fading light. I stiffened immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck rising as the unmistakable figure of Chernov stepped forward.

His black coat billowed slightly in the wind, and his smile, a shark’s grin, was wide, predatory. Behind him, Lev and Alexei flanked him, their expressions unreadable but dangerous.