Page 3 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

Misha Petrov—

Staring at me from the tallest part of the building.

Watching me like he already knew I’d come here.

Too fast. Too convenient. Like he wasn’t following me... but tracking me.

I saw him at the club just hours ago.

Does he want something from me... or is he already guessing I’m the obstacle to marrying my sister?

I looked away from him and let the cigarette burn to the filter.

I crushed it against the stone ledge, feeling the ember die under my fingers, but it wasn’t enough to smother the heat boiling in my veins.

Sleep wasn’t happening.

Peace sure as hell wasn’t happening.

So I did what I always did when the walls felt too tight.

I moved.

I woke up the next morning like I always did.

Not to sunlight.

Not to birdsong.

But to silence.

Thick. Heavy. Familiar.

It filled the corners of my room like smoke, curling around the edges of my breath. My fingers twitched before my eyes even opened, reaching instinctively for the velvet tray on the bedside table.

I rolled onto my side and let the cold morning air hit my skin. I hadn’t turned on the heat last night. Maybe I liked the way the chill bit into me. Kept me sharp.

Kept me angry.

Beside the tray was a tangle of unfinished chains, scattered gemstones, and a wire cutter that still had blood on the grip from a day I didn’t want to talk about.

Jewelry wasn’t just a hobby.

It was a ritual.

It was the one part of my life I controlled.

I sat up slowly, the silk sheets falling away, and dragged the beading board into my lap like it was armor.

Some people meditated.

Some prayed.

I twisted silver into spirals sharp enough to cut.

One earring.

Two.

Delicate amethyst drops with gold filigree, too pretty for a girl like me. I didn’t make jewelry to wear it. I made it to survive.

After twenty minutes, the tension in my jaw eased. A little.

I stood and padded to the bathroom, brushing my teeth without turning on the lights. I didn’t want to see myself in the mirror yet. Didn’t want to face the girl who looked back like she was daring me to flinch.

After a quick shower, I dressed in black jeans and a dark linen shirt I didn’t bother to button to the top. Too many buttons looked like I was trying.

Hair up. Not neat, just functional.

I didn’t do “pretty” in the mornings.

I did prepared.

Before I left the room, I clipped on the earrings I’d just made. A quiet rebellion. No one would notice them but me.

And maybe Gabriela.

And that was enough.

I padded down the stairs, hugging the shadows along the east wing.

Because even in this house full of ghosts and men with guns, the real danger wasn’t outside the walls.

It was the man waiting for my sister.

The man who hadn’t said a word to her all dinner, but had looked at me like I was a fuse begging to be lit.

Misha Petrov.

The reaper in a suit.

I wanted to check on Gabriela. I needed proof that she was still here, that some part of this nightmare was still reversible.

I didn’t make it to her door.

Voices floated from my father’s office.

I slowed, pressing my back against the cold marble wall.

I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

But when you live with wolves, you learn to hear through doors.

“...package deal,” a voice said, rougher than Papa’s, younger.

My heart skipped.

I edged closer, careful not to make the floorboards creak.

“...she’s fiery, sure. But fire can be tamed. The contract’s signed. No going back.”

A sharp clink of glasses. Laughter that didn’t reach the heart.

I peeked around the corner, just in time to see them.

Yuri.

And two men I barely recognized, older, crueler versions of him.

Brothers.

They stepped out, straightening their jackets like they’d just sealed the fate of kingdoms.

Yuri spotted me immediately.

His smile was slow and possessive.

“Perfect timing,” he said, striding toward me like I was a prize he’d won.

I froze.

Every instinct screamed at me to run.

But I stood my ground, letting him come.

He cupped my jaw, gentler than I expected and dropped the bomb without flinching.

“It’s official, baby. Your father agreed. We’re getting married.”

I blinked.

The hallway tilted slightly.

I forced my voice steady.

“You’re lying.”

He laughed, low and smug.

“Two weeks from today. You and me. Sealed and signed.”

I shoved his hand off. My father hated the sight of Yuri, “You know he doesn’t even like you.”

“He likes power,” Yuri said, unbothered. “And my family offered him something he couldn’t refuse.”

He leaned in closer.

“We’ve been dating for two months. What, you never imagined me as your husband?”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”

I stepped back, just out of reach.

“Go to hell, Yuri.”

“You made this decision without me,” I snapped. “You didn’t propose. We never had a real conversation about marriage. You just—went behind my back and arranged it like I’m a... transaction.”

He chuckled, brushing invisible lint from his suit. “I just couldn’t wait to make you mine, babe. Sorry it’s such a surprise.”

He winked. “You’ll get used to it.”

He sauntered down the hallway with his brothers in tow.

I stood frozen, the air thick around me.

My lungs refused to expand.

What changed?

Papa had barely tolerated Yuri.

Tried everything to sabotage our relationship. Now suddenly he’s signing contracts?

And Yuri, flirty and secretive. A two-month boyfriend I still barely knew.

We hadn’t talked about the future. We barely talked at all.

I wasn’t ready for marriage. Not mentally. Not physically.

Not when I still had two years left at Joya del Norte—Colombia’s top jewelry academy.

With blood roaring in my ears, I stormed toward my father’s study, the heavy wooden doors still cracked open from the visitors’ exit.

I found him at the bar, swirling a drink in his hand like he hadn’t just sold off my future.

“You agreed to marry me off to Yuri?” I said.

He didn’t even flinch.

“It’s done,” he said coolly.

“You hate him.”

“I hate weakness more.” He tossed the drink back and set the glass down hard enough that it cracked. “His father controls the eastern ports now,” Papa said, voice flat. “Access we need. Influence we can’t buy.”

“So you traded your daughter for shipping lanes,” I said bitterly

“You’re his girlfriend,” he said, like that was supposed to make this okay. “You’re acting like this wasn’t what you wanted.”

“You’ve hated us being together for months.”

“Because I thought he was soft. But he proved me wrong.

He’s made a move. A real one.”

“You didn’t even ask me,” I hissed. “You just decided.”

He sipped his drink again.

“You’re luckier than your sister.”

I clenched my fists at my sides.

“At least you’re not being sent to a stranger halfway across the world,” he said. “Be grateful.”

The way he said ‘stranger’ made my stomach turn.

His voice dropped cold. “You’ll do what’s required.” The finality in his tone stabbed like a knife.

I turned on my heel and stormed out, rage blurring my vision.

I didn’t see the figure until I slammed into a wall of heat and muscle.

Large hands steadied me at my elbows. Strong. Immoveable.

I looked up. Straight into Misha Petrov’s ice-colored eyes.

And forgot how to breathe.

For a moment, the hallway narrowed to just him and me.

His grip was firm but not rough. He stared down at me, close enough that I could see the flecks of silver in his glacier-blue eyes.

Close enough that I could feel the chill rolling off him in waves.

My heart jackhammered. Not just from the impact.

From the brutal, shocking realization.

Standing so close to him now. He looked like the man from my nightmares.

Their bone structure wasn’t identical, but the intensity was. The way the shadows clung to his jaw, the ruthless set of his mouth.

His presence hit like a cold front moving through a dead city.

“You should be more careful where you walk,” he murmured.

His voice was low.

Controlled. Deadly.

Something crackled in the air between us.

Hatred. Awareness.

Something neither of us said aloud.

I jerked out of his grasp, heart hammering.

He didn’t reach for me again. He just watched.

Like he was studying me.

Like he was cataloging every defiance, every fracture, every secret.

And I hated that part of me wanted him to see. Wanted someone to finally notice the girl cracking behind the mask.

“Get out of my way,” I said, voice rough.

He did.

With a slow, deliberate step sideways, like moving for me was a choice, not a courtesy.

I shoved past him, fists tight at my sides, and didn’t look back.

But his gaze burned between my shoulder blades the whole way down the hall.

Later that night

Gabriela’s door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open without knocking.

She sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders hunched, hair falling around her like a curtain.

At first, I didn’t see the bruises.

Not until she lifted her head.

The side of her face was swollen, purple blooming under her eye like a dark, ugly flower.

One of her ankles was wrapped in a bandage.

Pain speared through me.

“Gabriela,” I whispered, rushing forward.

I knelt at her feet, heart pounding. “Who did this to you?”

She flinched when I reached for her.

“Gabi, please. Tell me.”

She shook her head, tears welling.

“Was it Papa?” I demanded.

No answer.

“Was it Misha?”

Another violent shake of her head.

“Then who?”

Still nothing.

Just her trembling lips. The way her hands twisted in her lap.

“Baby,” I said, voice breaking, “please, you have to tell me.”

She sucked in a shaky breath but stayed silent, eyes darting toward the door like she was afraid someone would hear.

I felt my blood boil at her refusal to speak.

Every second she stayed silent, I lost control.

Was this really happening? Was my little sister that afraid of me—of the truth?

My chest tightened as the silence suffocated me, and I reached for her again, shaking her by the shoulders.

“Tell me who did this to you, Gabi! Please!”