Page 4 of Sweet Obsession
“She never means anything,” he snapped. “That’s the problem.”
Her lips pressed together. She didn’t speak again.
I hated the way she looked then, docile. Composed. Perfect. Like she hadn’t seen the way his rage split the air like thunder.
I stormed past them both, up the stairs, to my room.
A hot shower washed the sweat and Bratva blood off my skin, but not the heat curled tight in my chest.
I needed answers. And I needed her to stop pretending this was okay.
I dressed up and went straight to Gabriela’s room.
Her door was slightly ajar. I stepped into her room, a space that always smelled like flowers and lies.
She sat at her vanity, brushing her hair in slow strokes. She looked like a doll. A porcelain thing people put on a shelf to admire. Breakable. Replaceable.
“You should say no,” I said from the doorway. My voice was softer now. But still sharp.
“To the marriage.”
Her brush stilled. “Papa would never let me.”
“You don’t let a man like Misha Petrov into your life,” I said. “Not even if the devil himself tells you to.”
She turned, those big innocent eyes trained on mine. But something flickered there, fear, maybe. Or guilt.
“You think everything can be fixed with rebellion,” she said softly. “But not all of us can afford to defy him.”
“And what’s the cost of staying quiet?” I said, my voice low. “Letting him hand you over like a bargaining chip?”
She didn’t answer.
I stepped closer. “You think I fight because it’s easy? Because I enjoy it?”
My throat tightened. “I fight because someone has to. Because the minute we stop pushing back, we disappear. And I won’t lose you to this family’s silence.”
She shook her head, slow. “You don’t even see what I’m surviving.”
I blinked. “What?”
But she turned away. Started brushing her hair again, like she hadn’t just cracked something open and sealed it shut all in the same breath.
I hesitated in the doorway. Her back was to me, but I saw her blink fast, trying not to cry.
Quiet tears. The kind she always swallowed.
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, facing her reflection in the vanity mirror. “Do you remember when we were kids and I dared you to drink from Papa’s stash of scotch?”
She blinked. “You mean when I puked for two hours and blamed the maid?”
I grinned. “She still thinks it was food poisoning.”
Gabriela’s lips twitched. Barely.
“Or when I tried to pierce your ear with a safety pin because you weren’t allowed to wear jewelry until you turned fourteen?”
She finally smiled, soft, sad. “You gave me tetanus.”
