Page 33 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

His gaze locked with mine. Unapologetic. Unrepentant.

“I know,” he said.

Blood dripped from the blade in his hand, each drop tapping onto the marble like a metronome of violence.

Chernov writhed, cursing through clenched teeth as two guards rushed forward to help him. He shoved them off, refusing the weakness, but his blood was already staining the hem of his custom Odessa-tailored suit.

I felt every eye on me.

Whispers curled like smoke through the air.

“ He stabbed him—”

“He would never become Packhan this way—”

“The Odessa will wage endless war for this humiliation.”

“Just because he touched his wife’s hair?”

But I didn’t step back.

I stepped forward.

And when Misha turned to look at me, I met his gaze without blinking.

A hush fell heavier. His actions had weight.

Not just among us. But among the Bratva heads. Their wives. Their sons.

And yet I didn’t lower my gaze.

I walked toward him, heels clicking against the marble like a challenge, and reached for the hand still holding the blade.

I pressed my fingers over his knuckles, careful of the blood. Of what he’d done.

Of what it meant.

“Misha,” I said quietly, for him alone. “If you keep bleeding the world for me like this, there won’t be any of you left.”

Lev suddenly lunged.

Misha spun with the kind of elegance only brutality could teach. His arm deflected the punch, and then his elbow cracked into Lev’s ribs. Chairs scraped across marble. A glass shattered near the podium. Someone screamed.

And then, chaos.

The room erupted.

Guards surged from both sides. The Odessa men stepped forward. Nikolai and Oleg stepped forward too, pulling blades from their belts. A gun was drawn—then slapped out of someone’s hand before it could trigger a war.

Tables overturned. Wine spilled like blood. The Chita family took cover behind a pillar while Khabarovsk’s patriarch barked for his sons to stand down. But no one listened. Not really.

Because all eyes were on them.

Misha. Lev. Chernov.

And me.

Three men and one woman wrapped in violence and power.

The way Chernov bled, pale, shaking, clutching his side, it wasn’t just about betrayal. It was about desecration.

Misha didn’t just punish him. He humiliated him.

And now the whole Bratva knew.

I stepped between them.

Between Misha and the man he wanted to kill.

And I looked Misha in the eye. Only him.

“Please,” I added, lower now. “End this.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not submission. But restraint. Which, from a man like Misha, was the most violent kind of love.

He lowered the blade.

Just enough.

And the Bratva watched, silent, breath held, because the real power in that room wasn’t the blood or the weapons.

It was me. The woman he chose to listen to. The one who could pull him back from the edge. For now.

The host, the grey-haired man, stepped into the center, smoothing his jacket with shaky hands.

“There will be no vote tonight,” he declared, voice taut with the effort to sound in control. “We will reconvene in two weeks.”

“Why?” someone shouted from the Khabarovsk table. “Finish the vote!”

“Because,” the man barked, “due to the weather forecasts and logistics for safe travel, the Chita delegation must leave by morning. We will not cast the final vote without all five families present. And we will not reward violence.”

He turned sharply toward Misha, eyes narrowing. “You’ve just jeopardized your chances, Petrov.”

Chernov laughed, low, bitter, with blood still wet on his teeth. “Petrov, you humiliated me. In front of them. In front of her.”

Misha didn’t respond. But Chernov wasn’t done.

He wiped his mouth, glaring at the wreckage of spilled wine, glass, and pride around him.

His voice dropped into something venomous and quiet.

meant for Misha, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

He nodded toward me, like I was the reason he bled.

Like I was the weapon that cut deeper than the knife.

“When I become Packhan, you will live the rest of your days regretting what you did today. Don’t sleep too soundly, Petrov,” Chernov hissed. “You won’t see the next one coming.”

Lev caught his arm. Alexei flanked him on the other side. They stormed from the ballroom without another word, just the thunder of their departure, their power leaving a vacuum that no one dared fill.

And as Chernov and his brothers vanished into the dark, I knew one thing with brutal clarity:

This was war. And wars never ended clean.

I didn’t know what the next few days would bring. Only that men like Chernov didn’t forget. And they sure as hell didn’t forgive. Not betrayal. Not blood. And not me.

Especially not me.

A silence followed.

Tense. Tighter than before.

Then the host cleared his throat again and said, with less force this time, “Everyone should return to their quarters. Now.”

Misha didn’t look at anyone. He turned to me, extended his hand.

I took it.

And together, we walked past the shattered crystal, the overturned chairs, the unfinished courses of venison and caviar, through the ruins of diplomacy and the ghosts of men still breathing.

The storm hadn’t started outside.

But inside him?

Inside me?

It already had.

In the car, the air was thick. Misha didn’t speak for a long time. His jaw was tight, hands gripping the wheel harder than necessary. I watched the city blur by, the pale lights, the dark windows, the endless white snow building up like silence between us.

“Your chances of becoming Pakhan are slim now,” I said quietly.

His eyes met mine, sharp and unflinching. “It doesn’t matter. I would’ve stabbed him to death already, if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“I know.”

He looked back at the road, his voice rough. “They’re going to use it against me.”

“Of course.”

Misha didn’t reply. But I felt it in the way his hand found mine across the console.

He wasn’t done fighting.

Not by a long shot.