Page 36 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

Precisely one week later, I hadn’t meant to start painting.

I only wanted to clean the studio. Clear my head. Maybe sweep away the ghosts that seemed to follow me from room to room. Besides, it reminded me of my mother, she loved to paint when she was alive. We used to do it together.”

But one brushstroke turned into another. Then a smear of black bled into crimson, and suddenly I was on my knees with oil paint smeared up my wrists, my hair tied in a messy knot, breathing in the sharp sting of turpentine like it could scrape out the ache in my chest.

It didn’t.

I was rinsing the last brush when the bottle slipped. A single splash and pain.

It seared into my eyes like acid.

“Shit!”

The sink vanished behind tears. I staggered back, blind, breath hitching as the pain flared hotter.

I fumbled for the towel, but the fabric only smeared the burning across my cheek.

Footsteps. A door opening.

I didn’t need to see to know it was him.

“Luna?” Misha’s voice was low, rough with concern.

“I’m fine,” I lied, blinking furiously. “Just—paint. In my eyes.”

His fingers brushed my wrist. Gently. Carefully. “Come here.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his arms were already lifting me, steady as steel. I stiffened instinctively. The heat of his body, the scent of leather and cedar and faint smoke, it all wrapped around me like an unwanted memory.

“I can walk.”

“You’re not walking into walls on my watch.”

I wanted to snap something cruel. Something sharp.

But I couldn’t see, and I was too busy trying not to cry.

He carried me through the hallway, past the library, past the guards who didn’t dare meet his eyes. The world blurred behind my lids.

Each movement swayed with the rhythm of his steps. I hated the steadiness of him. Hated that he was the first person I thought of when the pain started.

He set me down in his private bathroom. It was dimly lit, warm with soft steam curling from the marble tub already half-filled.

“I...wait, you were already running a bath?”

“I saw you covered in paint hours ago,” he said simply. “I figured you’d need it.”

I blinked, even though it burned. “You were watching me?”

“You’re always being watched, malyshka. You just don’t know when.”

My stomach flipped, but not from fear.

He helped me lower into the water. The moment my skin met the heat, the pain dulled just slightly.

He rolled up his sleeves, knelt behind the tub, and began rinsing my face with cool water from a silver bowl.

One hand steadied the back of my head. The other swept gently across my eyes, wiping away the oil in slow, careful motions.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch more than necessary.

But his silence wasn’t cold. It was reverent.

Like he was afraid if he said the wrong thing, I’d disappear.

Eventually, my breathing slowed. The sting faded. I opened my eyes, vision blurry but improving.

He was still there.

Watching me.

But not with hunger.

With something worse.

Tenderness.

His fingers found the knot in my hair and began to loosen it. “You always tie it too tight,” he muttered.

I swallowed hard. “Because I don’t want it in my face.”

He said nothing. Just worked the strands loose with a patience I didn’t know he possessed.

Then I felt it.

The slow, methodical drag of his hands as he gathered my hair, soaked it under the faucet beside the tub, and lathered it with shampoo. His fingers worked through the knots with such care, I had to clench my jaw to keep from gasping.

This man had slit throats without blinking. Ordered executions without regret.

But here he was, washing my hair like he might break me if he pulled too hard.

And I hated how my body responded.

“Lean back.”

I obeyed before I could think better of it.

The water rushed over my scalp, rinsing the suds away. His fingertips followed, trailing against the nape of my neck. Goosebumps raced down my spine.

He leaned in, so close I could feel the whisper of his breath on my cheek. “Better?”

I nodded, barely able to breathe.

He paused. “Luna.”

I turned my head, our noses nearly brushing.

His eyes searched mine. Deep, stormy, furious, but also aching. Like he couldn’t figure out if I was the cure or the sickness.

Slowly, he leaned in.

And for a split second, I let him.

Because part of me wanted it.

Part of me ached for it. For something real. For something soft.

But just before his lips touched mine, I jerked away.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

“No,” I whispered, breathless. “Don’t.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He stayed crouched beside the tub, fists clenched, jaw ticking. That same rage in him, but aimed inward this time. At himself.

I pulled my knees to my chest, arms wrapped around them like armor.

“Thank you,” I said, hoarse.

He stood without a word, wiped his hands on a towel, and left the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for hours.

I stayed in the water long after it turned cold.

Until my skin puckered and the air made me shiver.

But the worst part wasn’t the silence.

It was the voice inside me that wouldn’t shut up.

The one that whispered truths I didn’t want to hear.

I hate that part of me melts when he’s gentle.

I hate that part of me wants more.

I didn’t want another surprise.

Not from him.

So when his shadow stretched across my doorway, large and quiet, I stiffened instinctively. I kept my back to him, arms folded, face carefully blank. A wall I’d rebuilt too many times to count.

“You’re not dressed.”

I glanced down at my leggings and paint-streaked tank top. “I wasn’t aware I needed to be.”

His voice was unreadable. “Come with me.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“I’m not asking, Malyshka.”

He turned, waiting by the door, not looking back to see if I’d follow.

And somehow, that worked.

I hated that I followed him.

Hated more that I wanted to know what he’d do next.

He led me down a wing of the estate I hadn’t seen before, through a narrow hall flanked with floor-to-ceiling windows and into a quiet room with tall wooden doors.

When he opened them, sunlight spilled through a skylight onto something unexpected.

A studio.

My studio.

The smell hit me first, linseed oil and turpentine, fresh canvas and varnished wood. The walls were lined with drawers and shelves stocked with brushes, pigments, palettes. A new easel stood in the center, beside a wide table scattered with sketchbooks.

There were skylights. A soft chaise in the corner. A basin for washing. Even a small speaker inlaid into the wall.

My throat dried.

I took a step in.

Then another.

A canvas waited on the easel, blank and untouched.

“You rebuilt it,” I whispered, fingers ghosting across the wooden table. “My mother’s studio at Columbia was...”

“Burnt,” he said quietly. “This one won’t.”

I turned. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual armor of black and violence stark against the soft light. But there was no pride in his eyes. No triumph.

Just quiet intensity.

“I know I can’t make it up to you, the damage and pain I caused you at Columbia, but I will try everything I can to see you smile again.” He said.

I stared at him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said.

“I know.”

I didn’t thank him.

He didn’t expect me to.

I took another step inside the studio. My fingers hovered over the smooth surface of the new table, over drawers I hadn’t opened yet, brushes perfectly arranged, colors I hadn’t touched in years.

It hit me—like a ghost pressed into my chest.

“This is what she loved,” I whispered. “My mother.”

Misha didn’t move.

“She used to paint every Sunday morning. No matter how tired she was. She always said the world couldn’t break you if you remembered how to create something beautiful.”

My throat went tight. I swallowed hard.

“When she died, I couldn’t pick up a brush for two years.” I gave a bitter laugh. “I thought if I did, she’d be gone for real. Like the paint would wash her away instead of bring her back.”

I turned to him slowly. “You destroyed the last portrait she ever painted.”

He flinched. Just a flicker. A crack in the mask.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I know this doesn’t erase that.”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”

He gave a tight nod, like he’d been expecting that.

“But it helps,” I added softly.

His gaze met mine. A flicker of something passed between us—acknowledgment, grief, and something heavier, harder to name.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I’ll try everything I can to see you smile again.”

The silence stretched. Tender, painful. But then—

A sneeze. Loud. Unexpected. From behind the cabinet.

We both froze.

I blinked. “Did someone just—”

“Nikolai!” Misha barked, striding toward the noise.

There was a crash, a clatter of brushes, and then Nikolai stumbled out from behind the shelf, holding a half-eaten croissant and what looked like one of my sketchbooks.

“I was just—uh—doing security rounds,” he said, crumbs flying. “You know, checking for bombs. Or paint terrorism. Very serious business.”

Misha grabbed the sketchbook from him. “Why the hell are you eating in here?”

“Because your scary chef banned me from the kitchen after I spilled beet soup on his Saint Laurent loafers!” Nikolai shot back indignantly.

“And also—” he looked at me “—you’re crazy talented.

Like disturbingly good. Honestly, if this mafia thing doesn’t work out, you could sell soul-crushing portraits to wealthy oligarchs and traumatize them into enlightenment. ”

I stared.

Misha looked like he was debating whether to strangle Nikolai or lock him in a vault.

“And you,” Nikolai added, pointing at his boss, “are seriously in need of therapy if your apology language is ’giant, emotionally devastating studio rebuilds.’”

Misha turned to me. “Do you want me to kill him?”

Nikolai raised both hands. “I’m just saying, next time maybe go for flowers. Or chocolate. Or a heartfelt apology over sad jazz and whiskey—”

“Nikolai.”

“Or a puppy? Ooh, a puppy named Redemption. Symbolic and adorable—”

“Out.”