Page 6 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

“Are you here to tell me to behave too?” I spat.

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m here to remind you.”

He stepped closer.

I forced myself not to retreat.

“Remind me of what?”

“That survival doesn’t care about your pride, Luna.”

I swallowed.

He was too close. His scent coiled around my senses.

“You hate this marriage too,” I said, searching his face. “You clearly don’t want my sister. So why go through with it?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Something dark flickered beneath his control.

“Because this isn’t about what I want.”

“Then what is it about?”

Silence. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then. “Debt,” he said quietly. “Blood. Oaths made before I could refuse.”

I frowned.

But before I could ask—

He moved. Fast and fluid.

I instinctively backed up, but he followed, step for step.

Then his hands slammed against the wall on either side of my head.

Caging me in, towering over me in a way that suffocated me.

I froze, breath caught.

His eyes searched mine—not with cruelty, but something colder.

Possession.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re already in my world, malyshka.”

The name rolled off his tongue like a brand—soft, almost tender, but it burned. I didn’t know what it meant. But I knew it wasn’t harmless.

He said it like it belonged to me. Like I belonged to him.

“Play your part,” he said. “Smile. Pretend.”

His voice dropped lower. “And survive.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped back like it cost him effort. His eyes burned—cold and full of something he didn’t name.

I watched him disappear down the hall, pulse still sprinting. Shaken. Because for the first time, I realized something terrifying:

Misha Petrov might be the only man here who didn’t want to break me.

He just might be the only one who already knew how.

The engagement party was a lie wrapped in silk and blood.

Gold chandeliers blazed overhead, throwing light across the marble floors. Waiters in crisp suits floated between guests with trays of champagne and caviar. The air smelled of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and greed.

Everyone who mattered in Colombia’s underworld was here tonight.

Bratva lieutenants, cartel heirs, politicians with bloodstains behind their smiles.

And me.

The sacrificial bride.

I stood on the balcony overlooking the ballroom, the cold iron rail digging into my palms.

Below, the music swelled, something slow, romantic, pretending this was just a love story.

My dress clung too tight to my skin, the color a soft, shimmering ivory, like innocence draped over a grave.

“Smile, baby,” Yuri murmured against my ear, his hand heavy on my hip. “They’re watching.”

I wanted to punch him. To scream about the drug he’d slipped into my drink two nights ago.

But not here. Not now. Not with every eye watching and the walls packed with men who would gladly silence a difficult bride.

So I smiled. Not for him. For survival. Just like Misha Petrov had advised.

I scanned the crowd. Gabriela stood near the champagne fountain, looking wilted and out of place in her pale blue gown.

Misha was nowhere in sight. For some reason, that unsettled me more than seeing him.

I needed him to be visible. Containable. Predictable.

Instead, he lurked — somewhere in the shadows.

Waiting.

Thirty minutes of ceremony passed. Papa had arranged for a “first dance” to celebrate the engagement.

This is not a wedding yet, but it’s close enough to make my stomach churn.

Yuri grinned, leading me onto the floor with an overconfident swagger that made me want to stab him with my own heel.

The crowd circled around us, clapping politely.

I let him spin me, let him press too close.

“You’re beautiful tonight,” Yuri whispered, too close, spinning me across the floor.

I smiled, mechanical and practiced.

“You used to say that like I was a person,” I said, voice flat. “Now it sounds like you’re describing a purchase.”

His fingers dug into my waist, hard enough to bruise.

My stomach twisted. We had been something once. Not love. Not quite lust. Something messy in between.

But this? This was a transaction. And I’d never agreed to be sold.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, lips brushing my ear. “Two weeks, and I’ll own every inch of you.”

My gut churned. I pulled back just enough to keep breathing.

Yuri’s hand slipped lower, fingers digging where they shouldn’t.

Before I could react—

Another man cut in.

Not Misha. Someone else.

Older, taller, broader, reeking of whiskey and power.

A senator’s son, if I remembered right. Ties to my father’s cartel. A man who thought every woman in the room was for sale.

“Mind if I steal her for a moment?” he said, not even looking at Yuri.

Yuri laughed and shoved me forward like a gift.

“By all means.”

The man’s hand closed around my wrist, iron-tight.

He led me toward a darker corner of the ballroom where the lights thinned and the guards looked the other way.

“You’re prettier up close,” he said, voice thick with drink. “What’s a girl like you doing with a bastard like Yuri?”

I tried to pull away.

“Let go,” I said, voice low.

He chuckled and shoved me lightly against the wall, one hand pinning my arm above my head.

“Come on, bonita. Give me a little taste before he ruins you.”

My knee found his groin. Hard.

He gasped, stumbled.

I didn’t stop there.

I slammed my elbow into his face. Cartilage crunched. Blood spurted.

He reeled, furious, lunging back toward me—

And stopped.

Misha was behind him.

The man turned. He paled. Something in Misha’s eyes made his spine fold.

He took one look—and fled, wobbling like a broken puppet.

Misha looked down at the bloodied trail with mild disinterest, like he’d just swatted a fly.

Then he turned to me. Expression cold. Unapologetic.

“You’ve impressed me twice, malyshka,” he said quietly.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I opened my mouth. No sound came out.

He stepped closer, until I could see the faint smudge of blood on his cuff.

“You play dangerous games with dangerous men,” he said softly.

The ballroom buzzed in the distance, music, laughter and lies.

Here, in the shadows, the real rules were being written in blood.

Misha reached out, brushed an invisible speck from my shoulder like he hadn’t just sentenced someone.

Then his gaze dipped to my lips, lingering like a warning.

“Smile when you walk back out there,” he said. “And fix your hair.”

Then he vanished into the dark—

Leaving me with a bloodstain on the wall, and a truth I wasn’t ready to face.

He wasn’t my savior. He was a storm dressed in silk.