Page 43 of Sweet Obsession
The Bratva banquet hall loomed ahead as the car pulled up, its cold stone façade towering against the dark, snow-laden night. The air itself felt thick with power. an unspoken command that seemed to seep from the walls, as if the building itself thrived on the blood that had been spilled here.
Guards stood at the gates, their machine guns glinting in the harsh light. Luxury cars lined the driveway, each more expensive than the last.
Power oozed from every corner. And then Misha stepped out of the car, and I followed him.
For a moment, he hesitated, offering his hand to me, as if he were a gentleman. His fingers brushed mine, and the heat of his touch sent a jolt straight through me.
“Smile,” he murmured, his voice a low command.
I hesitated, only for a second, before I allowed my hand to curl into the crook of his elbow. I didn’t trust him, but the grip of his arm was unyielding, and I had no choice but to follow his lead.
The moment we entered the grand hall, all eyes were on us.
Whispers floated through the air like moths, sharp and insistent.
“Is that her?”
“The Colombian girl?”
“The deal with Rojas?”
“Petrov’s bride?”
Misha ignored them all, leading me through the sea of onlookers, his stride purposeful, slow, deliberate. He owned the space without saying a word, without having to do anything but exist.
Every man who mattered was here. Politicians, Bratva captains, men with too much power and not enough morals, their smiles cold and calculating.
And every single one of them stared at me, their gazes hungry, wondering what I was.
What he was doing with me.
Good. Let them wonder. Let them see that I wasn’t afraid. That I wasn’t just another pawn in a game I didn’t understand.
Halfway through the room, Misha’s hand slid around my waist, his fingers pressing firmly into my flesh, possessive and commanding. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, not from fear but from the shock of his touch.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was a claim.
I leaned into him, instinctively, tilting my face toward his like I couldn’t get enough of him.
A show. A damn convincing one.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine. His lips were so close, I could almost taste him.
“Good girl,” he whispered, his words sending heat rushing to my core.
My pulse skittered wildly.
“Don’t push it,” I whispered back, the smile on my face nothing more than a mask.
The man who stepped into our path was massive. Bald, thick-necked, with a jagged scar running down his face.
One of the Odessa heirs, probably. They were the Petrov’s biggest rivals.
“Petrov,” the man rumbled. His gaze slid to me, lingering far too long.
It made my skin crawl.
“And this must be your beautiful new acquisition.”
