Page 32 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

The vote was still coming. Gabriella was still missing. And the Bratva still waited outside. But right then, all I knew was this: Misha would destroy the world for me.

And maybe, I’d let him.

The red silk was gone. Torn from my shoulders by Misha’s knife, it now hung awkwardly around my waist, clumsily gathered beneath his jacket.

He’d wrapped it around me after, muttering something possessive, almost gentle, but his eyes were still wild—dark with the kind of madness that promised ruin if anyone touched me again.

My heels clicked on the marble as we walked back into the ballroom.

My legs were unsteady, and the burn of his grip still lingered on my hips.

I’d tried to clean myself up in the shadows of the hallway mirror, smoothed my hair, fixed my lipstick with trembling fingers, but nothing could hide the mess we’d made of each other.

Eyes turned. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. I felt every stare like heat on my skin.

Misha didn’t care.

He moved with calm dominance, his expression unreadable, one hand possessively resting on my lower back as if daring anyone to speak. If they noticed my ruined dress, the faint red line the knife had left across my collarbone, or the bruising grip on my waist, no one said a word.

Because he was still a contender. Because this was still Bratva business.

Power hung in the air like smoke.

I scanned the table. Chernov sat across from Misha’s empty seat, hands folded neatly, a smug tilt to his chin that told me he’d noticed the delay.

His pale eyes flicked from me to Misha and back again, and the way he smiled made me want to claw it off his face.

He knew.

And he would use it.

The Volograd estate—the crown of the Bratva’s empire, was on the table tonight. Whoever won the vote wouldn’t just become Pakhan. They would control the region’s trafficking routes, the Bratva’s official connections to foreign arms, and, most critically, me.

At least, that’s what Chernov believed.

As Misha guided me back to our seats, the host cleared his throat at the head of the table. “We are entering the second and final half of the vote,” he announced. “A short break was called. Now we resume. There will be no interruptions.”

I sat beside Misha, pulse loud in my ears. He placed his hand on my thigh under the table—firm, controlling, his thumb moving in slow, almost absent circles that made it impossible to breathe right.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured without looking at me.

“You carved me out of silk and then threw me to the wolves,” I whispered.

His jaw ticked. “They were already circling.”

Across the table, Chernov lifted his glass to me in a mock toast. “Red suits her, doesn’t it?” he said lightly to the man beside him, though his voice carried just enough to sting.

Misha’s grip on my thigh tightened. “Careful,” he said, not to me—to Chernov. “The last man who looked at her like that couldn’t speak for a week.”

The elder from Irkutsk stood. “Let’s not waste time with threats. We vote based on strength, not sentiment.” His voice carried weight—impatience layered over deep-rooted tradition.

“Strength,” echoed the elder from Chita, “and legacy. The Volograd estate cannot fall into chaos.”

A murmur of agreement swept the table. My stomach twisted.

Misha leaned close to me, his lips brushing my ear. “Three votes are still undecided. Chernov has Magadan. Irkutsk is leaning. The rest, mine, if I can hold them.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then I’ll take them by force.”

Before I could respond, Chernov stood. “I request that each elder not simply cast a vote but explain it. Let the room know why they choose who they do.”

The host considered, then nodded. “Agreed. It is tradition in times of close decision.”

A hush settled. Every word would matter now.

The elder from Magadan stood first. “We vote for stability. Chernov has shown clear investment, foreign alliances, and control of debt. He’s young, but decisive.” His eyes didn’t even flick toward Misha. “We cast for Chernov.”

A rustle of unease.

The elder from Irkutsk rose next. “Petrov may be brutal, but he commands loyalty. His people fear him—but they follow. His control over Irkutsk port flow cannot be ignored.” He looked directly at Misha. “We vote for Petrov.”

Tied.

The host nodded once. “Three remain undecided.”

Tension rose like smoke. No one moved. No one breathed.

But before the next elder could stand, Misha leaned into me again, his hand sliding higher under the table, eyes never leaving the table. “If we win,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’ll never wear red again unless I tell you to.”

“You said I was free.”

“I said I was yours,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear. “You didn’t ask what that costs.”

I swallowed hard, heart thundering.

The next elder stood. Khabarovsk.

Everyone leaned forward.

And just before he spoke, the host raised a hand. “We will now break for ten minutes before the final votes are cast.”

The room sighed, tension scattering like ash.

Misha stood slowly, pulling me with him by the hand. “Don’t speak to anyone,” he said. “Especially not Chernov. You’ve already bled enough for one night.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make sure the right palms are greased.”

As he turned, I grabbed his arm. “What if they can’t be bought?”

He looked back, eyes burning. “Then I’ll take the position by fire. And if that doesn’t work... I’ll bury Chernov under it.

We sat together in the aftermath like nothing had happened.

The shadows clung to the edges of the ballroom, music low and ambient, but the air was tight with tension—like everyone was waiting for a match to drop.

Misha poured the drinks himself, the amber liquid catching the dim chandelier light as he handed me a glass.

His touch lingered. Possessive. Grounding.

I sipped slowly, trying not to look at Lev and Chernov standing across the room. Watching. Calculating.

Misha’s thigh pressed against mine under the long white-clothed table, his hand resting loosely on the back of my chair. He hadn’t said a word since he made that quiet promise to take the Volgograd estate by fire. But I felt the weight of him. The control simmering under the surface.

“They’re waiting for you to explode,” I said under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

His smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Let them wait.”

But then Lev moved. Smooth, smug, with the kind of entitlement only a second-born in a mafia family could carry. He was younger than Chernov but no less dangerous, his hands too clean for a man with his reputation, his smile too polite.

He stopped two feet from us, lifting a glass in mock salute. “Beautiful night for an upset, don’t you think?”

Misha didn’t respond. He simply sipped.

Lev took that as invitation.

“You’ll lose the Volograd estate if Chernov wins, of course,” he said, glancing at me like I was some prized item in an auction. “And Luna... well. She’ll be part of our family then. Officially.”

I didn’t flinch, but my stomach turned.

Lev tilted his head. “You should’ve worn white, Luna. Red makes it look like you’re bleeding for him already.”

Misha’s hand twitched on the table.

“Leave,” he said quietly.

Lev grinned wider. “Or what? You’ll make a scene in front of the five families?”

Misha didn’t blink. “If I stand, it’s war.”

That moment stretched thin. The silence was brittle. I reached under the table and placed my hand on Misha’s, trying to anchor him. He didn’t move. But his pulse was hammering.

Then Chernov appeared behind his brother, smirking like a devil dressed in Brioni.

“You should relax, Misha,” he said, voice slick.

“This banquet isn’t yours yet. Let’s not forget what kind of man you are.

You don’t do diplomacy. You break things.

That temper of yours, it’s going to cost you votes. ”

Chernov leaned in just slightly toward me. “And Luna’s safety.”

Misha’s fingers tensed beneath mine.

Chernov pushed further. “Tell me, does he always breathe this heavily when he’s about to lose control?”

And then he did the one thing he should not have done.

He reached out and touched my hair.

Just a strand, gentle, mocking, deliberate.

I barely had time to gasp before Misha moved.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t speak. He just stood and struck.

A blur of motion. A sharp crack echoed through the hall as Misha’s elbow drove into Chernov’s face, sending him stumbling back.

Blood spattered across the polished floor.

But Misha wasn’t done.

He stepped forward, slow, lethal, drawing something from beneath his jacket. I knew that blade. Slim, curved, obsidian-handled.

I had felt it on my skin an hour ago.

Not in violence. In sin.

That same knife had kissed the inside of my thigh as he’d whispered filthy things in the dark, tracing it over my bare stomach, holding it against my throat while he claimed me. He’d made me come with the weight of it. And now, he drove it into Chernov’s side with a savage twist.

Chernov howled, staggering into the wall. Blood soaked through his shirt, blooming like a dark rose across white linen.

Misha’s voice was ice when he finally spoke. “You don’t touch her. You don’t look at her. You don’t even breathe in her direction unless I say so.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Chernov gasped, clutching his ribs.

Misha leaned in, blade still dripping, his face inches from Chernov’s. “You’re bleeding because I was merciful. Next time, I’ll carve out your tongue and feed it to the dogs.”

He turned his back on him like Chernov was already dead.

Then he looked at me.

His eyes weren’t soft. They were burning.

Not with apology.

With possession.

With a need so deep it bordered on madness.

And maybe, just maybe, I burned too.

Because I didn’t flinch.

Not at the knife. Not at the blood. Not at the memory of what that blade had done to me behind closed doors.

I looked at Misha and said, voice steady despite the storm in my chest, “You used that same knife on me an hour ago.”