Page 40 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

After the mess I’d made in the studio. art or accident, I still wasn’t sure, I headed back to my room.

My shoes left tiny smudges of dried paint down the hallway as I crossed into the west wing.

Misha and I lived in the same section of the estate, but in different rooms. That was the balance—closeness without caging.

I pushed my door open. Stopped cold.

The room was empty.

Not empty like cleaned. Empty like cleared out.

My luggage, my sketchbooks, the sweater I always draped over the armchair, gone. I blinked, as if that would summon everything back. Then I started opening drawers, checking the closet, pacing the space like I’d missed something.

That’s when Sofia walked in, arms folded, looking far too calm for the chaos in my chest.

“He had your things moved,” she said. “To his room.”

I stared at her. “I... what?”

“Misha,” she clarified, like there was any other he. “Said you’d be safer there.”

“He should’ve asked me first,” I snapped, already brushing past her, fury burning hotter than the crimson paint still clinging to my shirt.

I stormed across the hallway and pushed open his door.

Misha stood near the window, silhouetted against dusk, a glass of something dark in one hand, the other braced on the ledge. He looked heavier than usual—like whatever he was carrying had settled in his bones.

“You moved my stuff?” I demanded.

His head turned slightly. He didn’t look surprised to see me. “Yes.”

“You couldn’t have told me first?”

“I didn’t think you’d argue if you understood why.”

“You didn’t let me understand anything, Misha. You just... decided.”

He finally turned to face me. His face was carved from stone. But his eyes... his eyes looked like they hadn’t rested in days.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I needed you close. Where I can control every entry point, every angle of exposure. You think I don’t know how this feels? I do. But safety comes first.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. It was weighted. Fractured.

I stepped closer, anger cooling as I studied him. “You look... burdened. Is this about the letters? Vargas Cartel and Chernov?”

He shook his head once. “It’s handled.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His lips lifted, but there was no humor in it. “Then don’t make me lie again.”

“Misha.”

He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, cupped my face in both hands, and kissed me. Slowly. Tenderly. As if every breath we shared was borrowed.

Goosebumps rippled down my arms.

Something in the way he touched me screamed goodbye.

My heart lurched. “Is this about tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he guided me toward the bed, pulled me down beside him. Held me against his chest like he was trying to memorize how I fit.

“I told you,” I whispered. “You don’t have to go.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t—”

“Luna,” he said, voice raw, “If I don’t return, Nikolai knows what to do. He’ll get you out of Russia. There’s a plan. There’s a team. A helicopter. New identities.”

I flinched. “What are you talking about?”

He looked down at me, his hand tangling gently in my hair. “There’s a chance I won’t come back.”

“No.”

“Listen to me...”

“No,” I said, louder this time, climbing onto my knees, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t do this. Don’t talk like this is the end.”

His eyes burned. “I’m fighting for legacy, Luna. For a world where the name Misha Petrov means something. Where you can wake up without fearing who’s watching. Where we’re not hunted by ghosts and debts and bloodlines.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat closed around the flood of everything I felt.

“I can’t promise I’ll win,” he said. “But I promise I’ll fight like hell to get back to you.”

I collapsed into his chest. Cried until his shirt was wet. His hands held me tight, as if he could somehow anchor me to the world.

Then he kissed me again.

This time, not soft.

It was the kind of kiss that stole breath and gave fire. That said every word he couldn’t voice.

He rolled me beneath him, his body a furnace, his hands tearing my underwear away in one swift motion. His zipper rasped, and he slid into me, deep and sudden, his face etched with sorrow, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re my fucking everything,” he growled, voice hoarse and breaking. A confession. A curse. A vow forged in ruin.

I gasped, my body arching, the stretch intense, every thrust a plea against tomorrow. He moved like a man who might never get another chance, each stroke deep, aggressive, as if he could fuck the fear out of us both.

I clung to him, my nails raking down his back, drawing blood as a moan tore from my throat—raw, hungry, defiant. I took his desperation, his unraveling grief, and gave it back in kind, refusing to let him say goodbye without burning for it.

His lips crashed into mine again, bruising, hungry. his tongue plundering my mouth as he drove into me harder, faster, the bed groaning beneath us, the world outside dissolving.

“If this is the last time,” he rasped against my lips, voice breaking, “I want you to remember who you belong to.”

His hand slid to my throat—not choking, just holding, claiming, anchoring me to him.

I moaned, undone beneath him, trembling as his weight pressed into every inch of me like a vow no god could break.

He grabbed my wrist, pressing it to his chest, right over the frantic thud of his heart. “Feel that,” he rasped, his thrusts slowing. deeper, rougher, each one dragging a moan from my soul. “This beats for you. If it stops, if I don’t come back, you fight. You fucking live.”

“Malyshka,” he growled, his hand tightening on my throat, just enough to make my pulse roar, his thrusts relentless. “You’re not leaving me. Not for Chernov. Not for death. You hear me? You fucking belong to me.”

“I’m yours,” I cried, my voice breaking.

“Fuck... I’m yours!” I screamed, wild and desperate, as my orgasm tore through me, a raw wail ripping from my throat, my body convulsing, soaking him. Misha roared, his release flooding me, hot and claiming, our bodies shuddering together, a shared defiance against the dark closing in.

He collapsed beside me, our bodies tangled in silence, my cheek resting over his chest where his heartbeat thudded—a fragile rhythm I clung to like a lifeline.

His sweat, his blood, the echo of our ruin clung to my skin, but even that raw intimacy couldn’t quiet the dread gnawing inside me.

Tomorrow loomed like a guillotine.

I couldn’t sleep.

The shadows stretched long, my eyes chasing shapes while the truth pulsed loud and merciless: everything could end, and I didn’t know if the man I loved would still be breathing when the sun rose.

I’d never known silence could feel so loud.

Misha was gone.

Calling him wasn’t an option—not now. He needed focus, clarity, control. All the things I didn’t have in his absence.

The estate was locked down tighter than a federal prison. Guards everywhere. Eyes in every corner. No one was getting in or out without ten layers of clearance. I was safe... on paper. But that didn’t matter.

Misha wasn’t.

I paced the halls like a madwoman, barefoot, my mind chewing itself apart.

I wandered into the kitchen. Opened the fridge.

Closed it. Reopened it. No appetite. Just nerves.

I tried the studio, stared at my half-finished painting, the smudges of vermillion and gold that now felt meaningless.

I roamed the halls again, the same circuit over and over. Anything to keep me from crumbling.

The clocks ticked louder than my own heartbeat.

Where are you?

I stopped at the window at the end of the hall and stared out into the snowy darkness. His shadow didn’t move out there. His voice didn’t call. His presence didn’t reach me. It felt like waiting on a battlefield, unarmed.

A soft knock pulled me from my spiral. I turned.

Sofia stood there with a knitted shawl around her shoulders and something gentle in her eyes. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” she said.

I tried to smile. Failed. “I can’t sit still.”

She walked in and touched my arm. “Then don’t. But don’t do it alone, either.” Her voice lowered, like she understood more than she let on. “Come. Play a game with me. Something stupid. Cards, dominoes. Anything to pass the time until we hear something.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” she said firmly. “You think he’d want you to fall apart now? Misha fights like hell for what he loves. Be the woman who stands for him, not the one who breaks.”

I blinked hard, lips trembling. “Okay.”

We sat in the parlor, spread out a deck of cards. It was a simple game, maybe something like rummy or snap. I didn’t register the rules. My mind kept drifting.

Was he walking into an ambush? Was someone pointing a gun at him right now?

Did he think of me when he walked into that banquet?

Was he still breathing?

Sofia nudged me. “Your turn.”

I looked down at the cards in my hand. Hearts. All broken, it seemed.

Then...

The door slammed open.

Oleg rushed in, boots still wet with snow, eyes wide, blood at his temple.

Sofia and I stood at once, dread tightening around my ribs like a noose.

“Where’s Misha?” I asked. My voice cracked in the middle.

Oleg looked at me. Something flickered in his eyes—relief, grief, pride. “He won.”

I staggered. “What?”

“He won the vote,” he said. “It was unanimous by the end. Misha’s the new Pakhan. All five families are now under his command. That means his influence reaches from Yakutsk to Irkutsk. Magadan, Chita, the Volograd estate, it all falls under his control now. Every arm of the Bratva...”

“What about the bad news?” I cut him off.

Oleg hesitated. His jaw clenched. “We can’t find him.”

The floor disappeared beneath me. “What do you mean, you can’t find him?”

“As soon as he was sworn in, chaos broke out. Chernov’s men attacked. But it wasn’t just them. One of the families that voted for him switched sides mid-ceremony. It was a bloodbath. Someone called the authorities. Russian intelligence showed up. Everything scattered.”

My breath wouldn’t come.

“But he’s not dead,” I said, voice hoarse. “He’s not...”

“We don’t know,” Oleg admitted. “There were over two hundred dead. No sign of Misha’s body. But no confirmation, either. Nikolai’s alive—he escaped. He’s the one who sent me here.”

I felt the tears build in my throat like stones. “So he could be out there. Wounded. Hiding. Alone.”

Oleg didn’t deny it. And that terrified me more than anything.

That night, I curled up on Misha’s side of the bed, clutching his pillow, dialing his number over and over. Straight to voicemail. I whispered into the silence, “Please come back. Please.”

He didn’t answer.

Three days passed. On the third, my phone buzzed with a strange number, and I answered.

“Hello, kotyonok,” came the slick voice on the other end. My blood went cold.

“Chernov.”

“I thought I’d do what your precious Misha couldn’t, reach out,” he said. “He’s been very quiet lately. You wouldn’t happen to know where your man is hiding, would you?”

“Go to hell.”

“Oh, I’ve already been. Lost a hand there, thanks to him. But he’s not the only one who’s made sacrifices.”

My stomach twisted. “What do you want?”

A video loaded into my message thread. I clicked it.

My scream caught in my throat.

My sister—chained, bruised, sobbing in a dark room. Her eyes searched the lens like she could see me. Her lips moved.

Luna. Help me.

“I see you got it,” Chernov said. “Thought I’d give you something to focus on now that your lover-boy’s disappeared.”

“You’re lying,” I rasped. “You know where he is.”

“No,” he said with unnerving calm. “Honestly, I assumed he died like the rest. But if he isn’t... tell him I said hi. And that the authorities are sniffing around now, Luna. One wrong move, and they’ll trace everything back to him. To you.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you,” he said. “Come out of your fortress. Trade yourself for your sister. Simple.”

I hung up.

I stared at my phone, shaking. Everything was unraveling—Misha, my sister, the world I was trying to survive in.

Do I go? Do I risk it all? Or do I wait... and pray he finds me first? And if he never does? What will be left of me then?