Page 48 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

LUNA

Two months.

That’s how long it’s been since I walked out of Yakutsk. Out of that house. Out of Misha’s life.

And yet, I never really left him. Not entirely. Not in my mind. Not in my body. And not in this strange, stifled corner of my soul that still turned sharply at the sound of boots on marble or a rough laugh carried by the wind.

A few days after I called him for the last time, I packed my bags again—this time with Gabriella at my side—and we flew to Paris. A temporary escape, we told ourselves. A much-needed break. Some air.

But I didn’t come just for croissants and overpriced lattes. I came here because the farther I was from Colombia, the less likely Misha would try something reckless. And with Father growing weaker by the day, he didn’t have the strength to stop me. A nurse tends to him. A doctor checks in weekly.

Let Misha think I’m gone for good.

Because if Misha really has spies trailing me, and I know he does, then the moment they report that I’ve left Bogotá, maybe he’ll stay put. Maybe he won’t die trying to drag me back.

Even if I miss him so much it hurts. Even if sometimes I wake up reaching for him in a cold bed and cry before I can stop myself.

Even if I know... he’s already here.

I’ve felt it since the day we landed.

It started at the bakery down the street.

I was paying for coffee when I felt it—that weight.

That sense. Like my skin recognized him before my eyes could.

I turned too fast, heart lurching. No one.

Just a man on a motorcycle watching the crosswalk.

Still. Silent. Staring at me through his helmet visor.

The next time was worse.

Gabriella and I were walking back from the Seine, arms full of fresh flowers and pastries. She was laughing—really laughing, which made my heart swell—and I felt it again. The air shifted. I turned fast, eyes sweeping the rooftop across the street.

Someone ducked. Not a pigeon. Not a shadow. A shape. A person.

No matter where I went in this city, I felt him like a second heartbeat. I didn’t have proof. Not hard evidence. Just a certainty carved into my bones.

Misha was watching me.

He hadn’t come for me—but he hadn’t let me go either.

I should’ve been angry. I should’ve called him, screamed, told him to stop. But some twisted part of me... was glad.

Because even if he didn’t know how to love me right, he hadn’t stopped trying to hold on.

Still. Two months was enough.

Gabriella and I were flying back to Bogotá tomorrow morning, and tonight was our last real night in Paris.

I sat cross-legged on the bed while she paced the room in her ridiculous purple satin robe and matching fuzzy slippers, trying to squeeze a fifth pair of heels into an already-bursting suitcase.

“You don’t need those,” I said, raising a brow.

She whirled around like I’d insulted her ancestors. “They’re lavender Louboutins, Luna. I absolutely need them.”

I laughed. “You wore them once and nearly broke your ankle.”

She gasped. “It was a dramatic stumble. For flair.”

“Your flair almost landed you in traction.”

Gabriella flopped dramatically onto the bed beside me, groaning. “Ugh. You’re so married.”

“I’m not married,” I muttered under my breath.

She sat up slowly, eyes narrowing. “Still hung up on him, huh?”

I didn’t answer.

“Luna.” Her voice softened. “He broke your heart, but... you broke his too. You sure you’re okay going back?”

“No.” I forced a smile. “But I’ve never been okay, Gabi. I just... learned how to walk with the limp.”

She wrapped her arms around me, tight and warm. “Well, at least you’re limping in designer heels now.”

That made me laugh. Real, full-body laugh. The kind I hadn’t felt in months. Maybe years.

She grinned and looked proud. “God, I missed being funny.”

“You were never funny.”

“Blasphemy!” she cried, launching a pillow at my face. I caught it midair and chucked it back harder, smacking her square in the jaw.

Her expression was stunned. Then she broke. Wheezing. Laughing so hard she curled into a fetal position on the floor.

For a few minutes, we forgot.

Forgot the blood. The trauma. The cartel. The exile.

We were just sisters. Whole. Loud. Alive.

And even though tomorrow we’d fly home to a broken country and a dying father, tonight... we were just two girls in Paris.

And somewhere in the shadows of this city, a ghost named Misha still watched.

Since it’s our last night in Paris, we decide to go to Pont des Arts, the bridge that’s always been the epitome of Parisian romance.

The lights from the city twinkle on the Seine, casting long, lazy reflections on the water as the evening air grows warmer.

The atmosphere is thick with the soft, hushed sounds of couples murmuring to one another, the occasional clink of wine glasses, and the steady rhythm of the river below.

Gabriella’s grinning, her eyes shining with something like contentment I haven’t seen in a while. She links her arm with mine, pulling me toward the edge of the bridge, where the city stretches out beneath us in a brilliant constellation of lights.

“Can you believe it’s almost over?” she murmurs, glancing out over the river. “We’ve barely done anything.”

But there’s a different weight to her words. This trip, this place, has healed something in her. Even if she won’t admit it, I can see it. She’s found some peace, some patch of light she can settle into.

I’m about to respond when I feel it again. That shift in the air, that prickling sensation on my skin. It’s subtle at first, a shift in the way the wind moves, a ripple across the surface of the water, but then, I feel the pressure of it in my bones. Someone’s watching me.

I glance out toward the Pont des Arts, where the crowds are thinner. There’s a figure in the shadows beneath one of the streetlamps, standing still, almost too still. I can’t see his face, but I know. I know it’s him.

Misha.

My heart stutters, a strange mix of anger and a pull deep in my gut.

I turn quickly, forcing a smile as I pull Gabriella back toward the center of the bridge. “Let’s go to the other side. The view’s better there.”

She doesn’t argue. She’s too busy soaking in the magic of Paris, and I’m thankful for it, because right now, I’m not sure I can handle her asking too many questions about what’s crawling up my spine.

As we walk, I glance back once more. The shadow remains, unmoving, watching from the edge of the bridge.

Gabriella notices the shift in my expression before I can mask it. “What’s wrong?” she asks, slipping her phone into her pocket, eyes narrowing with concern.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

She grins, light and teasing, but I can hear the hint of something else in her voice. “Please don’t say it’s Misha. This is Paris, not a Jason Bourne movie.”

I don’t laugh. I can’t. Because deep down, I know exactly who it is.

The shadow under the lamp doesn’t need to step into the light to make itself known. Misha had a way of clinging to the air—of becoming a pulse that lived just beneath my skin, just out of reach, but always there.

If he had followed me here, it wasn’t just obsession. It was suicide. The Vargas cartel still wanted his head. He should’ve stayed far away.

But this was Misha.

He never knew when to stop

The morning we were to leave Paris, Gabriella burst into the room wearing my silk scarf like a cape.

“I’ve packed absolutely nothing helpful,” she declared. “Unless you think Colombian customs will appreciate three pairs of heels, a French press, and a vintage trench I found in Montmartre.”

I smiled in spite of the dread gnawing at my stomach. “You bought a trench coat in July?”

“Fashion doesn’t sweat, Luna. Fashion commits.”

I laughed, sinking into the hotel bed, watching her spin around like the girl she used to be.

Paris had done something to her. Healed the cracks. She smiled more now. Slept through the night. Ate pastries like calories were a myth. Once, she even flirted with a bartender—awkward and blushing, but alive.

I had almost started to believe that if we could just make it out of France without another ghost trailing us, maybe we could be okay.

“Are you going to miss it?” she asked, dropping beside me.

“Paris?”

She nodded, nudging her chin toward the window where the Eiffel Tower blinked in the morning haze.

I stared at it, then back at her. “I’ll miss you in it.”

She groaned. “Ugh. You’re such a romantic now. Colombia’s going to crush that out of you in a week.”

“Probably,” I said. “But thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being the one thing that didn’t fall apart.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled me into a hug. “I’m not that great. I forgot to pack my passport.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding! God. You really are jumpy.”

I didn’t laugh this time.

Because my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

No message. Just the missed call notification. My throat dried. My body went still.

And then Gabriella’s smile froze too—her eyes locked on something past my shoulder.

I turned toward the open doorway of our suite.

There he stood.

Misha.

Hair longer, beard rougher, black shirt wrinkled, bruises still faint along his throat. A shadow that had followed me across an ocean now standing in the flesh.

The missed call was him. I knew it before I turned around.

I didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Until Gabriella said, low and dangerous, “What the hell are you doing here?” but her voice faltered, just a little. Like even she couldn’t believe the ghost had stepped into the room.

And Misha—brutal, broken, still arrogant in the way only men who’ve survived hell can be—stepped into the room.

He didn’t fall. Not immediately.

He just stood there, chest rising like he’d run miles, eyes locking on mine like I was air after drowning. Then he looked at Gabriella, really looked at her, and something in him crumpled.

He dropped to one knee.

Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just a man who had run out of ways to fight.

“Gabriella,” he said, hoarse, his voice scraping out of him like it hurt. “I know you hate me. You should. I deserve it. But please... I need her.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. His eyes stayed on Gabriella, as if asking permission from the one person who had every right to keep him out.

“I don’t care if she never forgives me. I don’t care if you spit in my face. But if you’ve ever known what it’s like to ache for someone like breathing, then help me. Let me try to fix what I destroyed.”

Gabriella stared at him, stunned. The girl who always had a comeback, who once threatened to knife a Bratva soldier for looking at her wrong—completely silent.

And Misha stayed there. One knee. No pride left. Just need.

And I couldn’t breathe.

Because I had spent two months trying to forget a man who had clearly come to Paris just to be remembered.