Page 31 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)
LUNA
Last night still clung to my skin like the faint trace of his cologne.
He’d ruined me with every calculated touch, tasting me, tormenting me, using my body like it belonged to him.
Sofia stood behind me, her fingers deftly weaving my hair into an intricate braid. The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized—eyes smoldering with defiance, lips painted a bold crimson, and a red silk dress that clung to every curve.
“Are you sure about this dress?” Sofia asked, concern etched on her face.
I met her gaze in the mirror. “I want them to see me. To remember me.”
She sighed, smoothing the fabric over my hips. “Misha had a different dress in mind.”
“Misha isn’t here,” I replied, my tone firm.
Sofia hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But be cautious. The Bratva banquet is no ordinary gathering.”
I turned to face her. “Any news on Gabriella?”
Her expression darkened. “Still missing. Misha’s men are searching, but leads are scarce.”
A knot tightened in my stomach. “I can’t sit idly by.”
Sofia placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
The limousine ride to the banquet was silent, the city’s icy streets reflecting the vehicle’s headlights. Upon arrival at the opulent hotel, a fleet of luxury cars lined the entrance, their polished exteriors gleaming under the chandeliers.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric. Members of the five Bratva families from regions surrounding Yakutsk—Irkutsk, Magadan, Khabarovsk, Chita, and Amur—filled the grand ballroom.
Each family occupied a section of the grand hall, their banners displayed with pride. At the center, a long table awaited the key players.
Sofia leaned in. “Remember, the vote tonight determines the new Pakhan. If Chernov wins...”
I nodded, the weight of her words settling heavily. “He’ll have the power to destroy Misha—and claim me.”
As I made my way through the crowd, a hand grasped my arm.
“Luna,” a voice drawled.
I turned to see Lev, his grin predatory. “Red suits you. Soon, you’ll be wearing our family’s colors permanently.”
I pulled my arm free. “Don’t count your victories before the vote, Lev.”
He chuckled, eyes glinting. “We’ve greased the right palms. The Volgograd estate will be ours—and so will you.”
Before I could respond, Nikolai appeared beside me. “Is there a problem here?”
Lev raised his hands mockingly. “Just a friendly chat.”
Nikolai’s gaze was icy. “Then perhaps you’d like to chat elsewhere.”
Lev smirked and melted into the crowd.
Nikolai turned to me. “Misha is waiting.”
He led me to the central table, where Misha sat like a king on a throne, his tailored black suit accentuating his broad shoulders and coiled strength. His dark eyes locked onto mine, unreadable but heavy with intent.
He stood, pulling out the chair beside him with a deliberate slowness that made my skin prickle.
His gaze lingered on the red dress, a storm brewing in his eyes. “You chose red,” he said, his voice low, a dangerous edge beneath the calm.
I held his stare, refusing to flinch. “I did.”
The anchor rose, calling the room to order. “Ladies and gentlemen, we convene tonight to determine the next Pakhan of the Bratva. The vote will be conducted in three rounds, with each family’s representative casting their ballot in secrecy.”
As the first round commenced, the room buzzed with whispered conversations and speculative glances. Misha remained stoic, his hand resting lightly on my thigh beneath the table, a possessive gesture that sent a shiver down my spine.
After the initial round, the anchor announced a brief intermission. Guests dispersed, some retreating to the bar, others engaging in hushed discussions.
Misha’s grip tightened, then released. He stood, his hand closing around my wrist, and without a word, he led me through the crowd, his stride purposeful, predatory.
He pulled me into a secluded alcove, its velvet curtains muffling the ballroom’s chaos.
The air was thick, scented with wax from a nearby candelabra.
Before I could speak, Misha pressed me against the wall, his body a furnace against mine, his lips crashing into me with a hunger that stole my breath.
His hands roamed, claiming every inch of the red silk, tearing at the fabric as if it offended him.
“No matter the vote,” he growled against my throat, his voice raw, unhinged, “You’re not leaving me. Ever.” His teeth grazed my collarbone, a sharp promise that made my knees buckle.
“Misha...” I gasped, my hands fisting in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
My body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving the fire he ignited.
He kissed me again—harder, rougher—his hands gripping my hips like he was trying to make me feel it later.
The candlelight flickered as he lifted me off the ground and pinned me against the wall, the heavy curtains wrapping around us like we were meant to disappear here. His hands pushed under the silk, possessive and fast, his breath hot against my neck.
My breath hitched as he drew a knife from his belt, its blade glinting like a shard of moonlight.
Fear and desire twisted together, my pulse racing—run or melt, I couldn’t decide. But he didn’t cut me. He slid the blade through the straps of my dress, the silk falling to my waist, leaving my breasts bare.
His gaze devoured me, a predator savoring his kill. The knife’s cold edge traced my collarbone, light, deliberate, a whisper of danger that made me whimper.
My body trembles under its caress. His mouth followed, kissing the path of the blade, branding me with lips and teeth, each touch a warning, a vow. “You were made for me, Malyshka,” he murmured, his voice deviant, “and I’ll make sure your body never forgets it.”
The room blurred, the world reduced to our ragged breaths, the rustle of torn silk, the crash of the candelabra as it tipped, wax splattering the floor like blood.
I clawed his back, my nails drawing blood through his shirt, a sharp moan bursting from me as I marked him, wanting to hurt him, to make him feel the chaos he’d unleashed.
His hand slid between my thighs, and he froze, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fuck, Malyshka, no panties?” His fingers brushed my clit.
“Yeah...”I moaned, my hips bucking, shameless under his touch.
He parted my thighs, his eyes locked on mine, and pressed the knife’s blunt handle—smooth, cold, unyielding—against my clit.
My breath hitched, escaping in a gasp as he caressed me with it, metal gliding through my slick heat, teasing, torturous.
“You defy me,” he growled, devouring my lips, his kiss aggressive, bruising, “but this body knows its master.” He slid the handle inside me, slow, deliberate, and I screamed, my body jerking, pleasure and fear colliding.
His mouth moved to my breast, sucking hard, his teeth grazing as he fucked me with the knife’s handle, deeper, faster, the cold metal stretching me, claiming me in a way that felt profane, unholy.
The alcove spun.
“Fuck!” I screamed. “More!”
My voice echoing off the stone, loud enough to pierce the curtains. What if someone heard? What if they found us, the Bratva’s new Pakhan candidate fucking his wife with a knife in a room full of vipers? But Misha didn’t care, and God help me, neither did I.
My hands gripped his shoulders, my nails digging bloody crescents, my moans rising to a primal as the pressure built, my climax coiling, sharp and inevitable. The knife’s handle drove deeper, relentless, and I bit his shoulder, muffling a wail as my body trembled, teetering on the edge.
Footsteps approached—heavy, deliberate, just beyond the curtains.
My heart lurched, panic flaring. I tried to pull away, to tug my ruined dress down, but Misha’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with defiance.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarled, lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he freed his cock, hard and pulsing.
He slid into me, deep, sudden, and I gasped.
My body clenched around him, the stretch overwhelming after the knife’s cold intrusion. He supported my ass, his hands bruising, and I slammed down onto him, fucking him back, our rhythm frantic, reckless, as the footsteps grew louder.
The risk—God, the risk, electrified me. We were married, but this, here, in the heart of a Bratva summit, was a scandal waiting to explode. Yet I didn’t stop, couldn’t, my moans muffled against his neck as we moved, the curtains swaying, threatening to betray us.
“Every inch of you is mine to ruin,” he growled, kissing me hard, his tongue claiming my mouth as he thrust faster, deeper. “Let them hear. Let them know who you belong to.”
He spinned me, pressing my hands against the wall, my torn dress pooling at my feet.
He thrust into me from behind, his hand fisting my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. “I’ll bleed for you,” he rasped, and before I could process, he dragged the knife’s edge across his own palm, blood welling, dark and glistening.
He smeared it across my chest, painting my skin, a ritualistic mark that made me scream,
My body trembled with the sheer deviance of it. His blood mingled with my sweat, our bodies a canvas of obsession, and I came undone, my climax crashing through me, a primal wail tearing from my throat as I soaked him, my legs buckling.
Misha roared, his release flooding me, hot and claiming, our bodies shuddering together as the footsteps paused, then retreated, the danger passing but the thrill lingering.
He held me, still inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged.
“If Chernov wins,” he whispered, his voice raw, “I’ll burn this city to ash before I let him touch you. ”
I held onto him, breathless. My body was a live wire, trembling from the inferno we’d just ignited in the alcove’s velvet shadows. My red silk dress lay in tatters at my feet, my skin streaked with sweat, wax, and Misha’s blood, my thighs slick with our mingled release.
He’d fucked me like I was both his punishment and his absolution.