Page 80 of Sweet Obsession
His fingers trailed down to my neck, pausing over the necklace, and I froze, my breath catching as he traced the black pearl with his thumb. “This,” he murmured, his voice darkening, “belonged to my brother. Stepan. He was wearing it the day he disappeared in Colombia. Fifteen years ago.”
My heart stopped, my mind racing as I realized the depth of his suspicion.
“I didn’t know,” I I stepped back, breaking his touch, my hands clenching into fists. “But if you think I had something to do with his death, you’re wrong. I was eight, Misha. I wasn’t even old enough to know what the Bratva was.”
His eyes narrowed, searching mine, and for a moment, I thought he might believe me. But then he grabbed my wrist, pulling me against him, his body hard against mine, his breath hot on my lips. “Don’t lie to me, Luna,” he growled, his grip bruising, his voice laced with a pain I hadn’t heard before. “Stepan was all I had. He was the only good thing in my life, and someone took him from me. If you’re hiding something, if you know who killed him, I’ll tear the truth from you, piece by piece.”
I shoved against his chest, my nails digging into his skin, my anger matching his. “I’m not hiding anything!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the room, my tears burning my eyes. “I don’t know who killed him, Misha! But I know what it’s like to lose someone, I lost Yuri, I lost my mother, I lost everything because of you! So don’t you dare act like you’re the only one who’s suffered!”
His grip tightened for a moment, his eyes blazing, but then he released me, stepping back, his chest heaving. For the first time, I saw a crack in his facade, a flicker of vulnerability, a shadow of the boy who’d loved his brother, who’d been broken by his death. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask of the Bratva reaper, but it was enough to make my heart ache, to make me hate him a little less, even as I hated myself for it.
“I’ll find the truth,” he said finally, his voice low, a promise as much as a threat. “And if you’re lying, Luna, if you’re part of this, I’ll make what I did in Colombia look like mercy.” He turned,heading for the door, but paused, his hand on the frame. “Don’t leave this room,” he ordered, his voice cold. “Not until I say.”
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving me alone in the silence, my body trembling, my mind racing. I pulled the burner phone from my dress, my hands shaking as I reread Chernov’s message in my mind.
Three days.
Three days to choose: run again and risk Misha’s wrath, or stay and try to uncover the truth behind Stepan’s death.
I’d tried to escape twice. First after learning I was to marry him. Then again after Yuri’s burial.
A third time?
It might kill me.
But I’d protect Gabriela. No matter the cost.
I hadn’t seen Gabriela since the night I left. I could still hear her sobs echoing through the compound. I had to get her out too, whatever it took.
And one day, I would make Misha pay for every inch of me he’d shattered.
Even if I had to break myself to do it.
Chapter 11
LUNA
Even staying in Misha’s wing felt like punishment. The marble floors were cold under my feet, the walls too quiet, like they were listening. Four days since Colombia. Four days since he locked me in here. And still, the scent of smoke haunted me.
He’d burned everything. I hated him for it. For turning my grief into ash. I left my room, silk robe tied tight, tea mug in hand, and wandered down the hall. I didn’t make it far.
I turned a corner, and slammed into him.
The tea spilled, scalding amber against his crisp white shirt. My breath caught. Misha didn’t flinch. He just stared down at me, his pale eyes like ice under fire.
“Luna,” he said, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.
“I didn’t know you were there,” I said quickly, backing away. Then the bitterness rose. “Maybe if you didn’t keep me locked in this velvet coffin, I wouldn’t be spilling tea on you.”
His lips twitched, barely. Like he found me amusing. That only made it worse.
He undid his shirt slowly, peeling it off like it was nothing. Scars stretched across his chest, sharp reminders of the life he lived. “It’s just a shirt,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”
My body betrayed me, shivering, not from cold. From the echo of his voice in Colombia. The heat of him.
“I’m not cold. I’m furious,” I said, my voice sharp with grief. “You destroyed everything that matters the most to me.”
I sucked in a shaky breath, rage and sorrow tangling in my throat. “You even almost touched my sister. How am I supposed to feel anything but hate?”
