Page 58 of Sweet Obsession
“One year,” I muttered, low and dark. “Just one year.”
But in the silence that followed, I knew. I was already breaking the rules.
And when this burned, because it would, I would have no one to blame but myself.
The night that followed, I didn’t let her sleep in her wing. I locked the doors myself. For once, maybe just this one night, I needed her in my room. I couldn’t say why exactly, but maybe my heart already knew. She’d protested. I didn’t listen. I forced her here.
Maybe that made me the monster.
But monsters don’t bleed for ghosts. And every time I looked at her, I saw one.
She didn’t belong in my house. Didn’t belong in my bed.
But she was here. Curled beneath my sheets, trembling from a nightmare she wouldn’t speak of. She shifted, just enough for the blanket to slip from her shoulder, bruised from the fire, from the fall, from everything she wouldn’t admit had left a mark.
I hadn’t laid a hand on her. But my silence had. And silence, I’ve learned, cuts deeper than any blade.
She slept with her back to me. Curled up on the far side of the bed like I was the monster she’d been warned about.
I stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, listening to the quiet rise and fall of her breath, until it caught.
I turned my head. Watched the outline of her spine tremble. She didn’t make a sound. She never did. But her pain was loud in all the ways that mattered.
And still, I didn’t go to her. I couldn’t. Because if I touched her now, I wouldn’t stop at comfort. I’d pull her close. I’d make her mine. And I’d forget every damn reason I brought her here in the first place.
I hadn’t slept. Not in three days. Not since we left my father’s house in Moscow. Not since I found my brother’s necklaceburied in her belongings. And now, she wore it around her neck like it belonged to her.
She didn’t know I’d seen it. She didn’t know I hadn’t stopped turning it over in my mind, again and again, like a curse I couldn’t shake.
Was it guilt that made her wear it? Grief? Or was it something far worse, a secret she’d die before confessing?
I shifted, slowly, the old mattress creaking beneath my weight. Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn around.
The silence between us was thick and bitter.
I hated how my body responded to her before my mind could stop it.
Nikolai knocked once before stepping in. “Sir Vladmir sent a message,” he said, low, handing me a folded note.
I took it without a word, fingers breaking the old wax seal with practiced violence. One glance and I nearly laughed.
Not out of amusement. Out of disbelief.
“My father is sending us to the Volograd estate?” I said, standing, voice cold. “He wants a show.”
Nikolai frowned. “You and the girl?”
“She’s not just a girl anymore,” I muttered. “She’s my wife now. At least until this is done.”
He read over the message. “He wants appearances. Reassurance to our allies. And no disruption until the estate project is completed.”
I looked back at the bed. At her.
Still pretending to sleep, but her fingers had curled into fists. She’d heard every word. Good. Let her feel it. The noose tightening.
We were bound now. For better or worse. Mostly worse.
“Get the SUV ready,” I said. “If we’re going to play house, we might as well make it convincing.”
