Page 83 of Sweet Obsession
“I should hate you,” I said. But my voice was dust. Weak.
“I know,” he said
His hand slid back to my waist. Gentle now. Steady. Anchoring.
“I’m tired,” I mumbled, stepping back fast. I didn’t wait for his reply. I walked out before he could touch me again, before I forgot what he’d done, before I let him rewrite the truth.
Because I shouldn’t feel anything for a man like Misha.
But I did.
The Next Morning, I padded down the stairs in one of his old shirts, too big on me, the hem brushing my thighs. The cottonclung to my skin with each breath, and I hated how it felt like a claim.
Misha stood by the stove, setting down bread, cheese, and a steaming pot of borscht like this was some kind of domestic dream and not a waking nightmare. The scent curled through the room, earthy, rich. Too warm.
His pale eyes cut to mine. “You’re late.”
I folded my arms, voice flat, laced with venom. “Didn’t know I had a schedule.”
“You didn’t,” he said smoothly, nodding at the chair across from him. “I just thought you’d starve sulking in your room.”
“Nice of you to care,” I snapped, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. “But I’m not hungry. Especially not for whatever you’ve handled.”
Misha didn’t rise to the bait. He pulled out the chair anyway. “Sit, Luna.”
That voice, command with the faintest edge of softness. I hated that it worked. I sat, tension radiating off me.
He served me. Didn’t eat himself. Just watched. I hated the way he looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I haunted him.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I asked, low. “You could have anyone. Why bother with me?”
Misha leaned in. Shadows under his eyes, fingers clasped like he was praying. “Because you don’t pretend. You hate me and still you stay. You make me feel like I’m not beyond saving.”
He glanced down. “Stepan used to look at me like that too... before I lost him.”
The name hit like ice water. I set my spoon down, knuckles whitening.
“I dream of my mother,” I said. “Before you scorched her memory off the earth.”
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Then he reached across the table. not for my hand, but for the glass beside me. His fingersgrazed my thigh under the table, deliberate, slow, before curling around the glass.
I jerked back, knees knocking the edge. The glass fell and shattered between us.
I swore and dropped to my knees, reaching instinctively, and his hand caught mine before I could bleed. His grip was firm, warm, rough.
“Don’t,” he said, his thumb brushing along the inside of my wrist. “You don’t need to bleed for this.”
He crouched with me, body too close. My pulse thudded as I stared into his face, into the part of him that wasn’t Bratva, wasn’t a monster. Just a man with tired eyes and blood on his hands.
“Why do you keep giving me pieces of you?” I whispered. “When all I’ve ever done is try to escape you?”
“Because I can’t stop,” he said, voice scraping low. “Because when you’re near, I feel like I could be something else. Something... more.”
He pressed his forehead to mine, breath fanning over my lips.
His hand curled around my waist, pulling me in, and I didn’t push him away. I just stood there, trembling, caught in the gravity of everything I wasn’t ready to admit.
“I still hate you,” I murmured.
