Page 41 of Savage Obsession

As the night progresses, the air becomes thicker with tension. But Yelena holds her own, engaging in sharp, intelligentconversation with the most powerful men in the room. Her wit is just as sharp as theirs, if not shaper. But not everyone is pleased.

From across the table during dinner, one of the Greek elders, Demetrios, an old dog from the traditionalist faction, raises his glass and smiles coldly. "I must say, Aithan, your wife is quite… captivating. A Russian beauty amid our Greek legacy. How very modern of you to let an outsider in."

A few chuckles rise from his side of the table, laced with skepticism rather than humor.

Yelena smiles, but there is steel beneath it. "Modern? Or strategic? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like both families benefit from this union, and everyone's pocket is going to get fatter from that benefit."

Leon chokes on his drink, barely covering his laugh with a cough. Demetrios’ smirk tightens, and he lifts his wineglass to his lips, conceding to Yelena’s bite.

Later on, I watch as she shakes hands, smiles, and engages effortlessly. She is natural at this. Her regal posture, the way she moves with confidence—it is not an act. She was born into this world and has mastered its nuances. And as much as I detest my father monopolizing her, I allow it. For now.

But my eyes never leave her.

Even as I engage in discussions with other men, my gaze flicks to her, ensuring she remains within my sight. After all, she is mine.

My fingers tighten around my glass as a surge of possessiveness grips my chest. Every pair of male eyes in the room is on her, lingering too long for my liking.

Leon lets out a low whistle beside me. "Well, damn. She cleans up well."

"Shut up, Leon." My voice is quiet, but the warning in it is clear.

Yelena is poised, regal, and unreadable as she makes her way through the crowd. She greets the guests with effortless grace, her head held high, her smile calculated yet warm enough to mask the fire beneath her surface. It’s a dance, a game of power and perception, and she plays it beautifully. She’s not here to be meek. She’s here to show them that she is my wife and no one’s pawn.

Then, I see him.

George Nikolaou.

He is standing too close. Smiling too wide. And Yelena is laughing—actually laughing at the motherfucker.

Something primal stirs inside me. The instinct to claim. To remind her who she belongs to.

I excuse myself from the conversation, my movements slow and deliberate. I pluck two flutes of champagne from a passingwaiter, my grip tightening around the stems. I reach them just as George leans in slightly, and Yelena tilts her head, amused.

Note to self: Remember to pay George a visit.

“Enjoying yourself?” I murmur, stepping between them as I offer Yelena one of the flutes.

She accepts it with a grin. “Immensely.”

George clears his throat, sensing the shift in energy. He straightens and extends a hand. “Aithan, good to see you.”

I shake his hand, my grip purposefully firm. “Nikolaou.”

His gaze flicks between me and Yelena, assessing. “You have quite the wife.”

I don’t smile. “I know.”

Yelena arches a brow but remains silent, sipping her champagne.

George chuckles nervously. “Well, I should—”

“You should,” I agree, my tone laced with a silent warning.

He inclines his head before disappearing into the crowd. I take a sip of my champagne, my body still tight with lingering possessiveness.

“Was that necessary?” Yelena asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.

I meet her gaze, unrepentant. “Yes.”

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