Page 97 of Sweet Obsession
Misha’s jaw clenched. “If he had a hand in this, I want his head on a fucking plate. Tonight.”
Then he left too. Now it’s just us.
I collapsed on the couch, files clutched to my chest. Everything hurt. My cheek stung. My hands were shaking.
How long is this going to go on? Even after the ceasefire. After the talks. After Misha swore it was handled.
I’m still being hunted. Still dodging bullets like nothing changed.
There was supposed to be peace with the Odessa family—so why the hell are we bleeding again? Why are we still running like prey?
And my father... how can he be at peace knowing his allies just ambushed me? Or maybe that’s the answer—he knew. Maybe this was part of the plan all along.
Misha knelt in front of me, his hands red, his brow split. Still, he wiped my cheek with a cloth, gentle like I was something breakable.
“I activated the tracker in your coat the moment you left,” he muttered as he pulled me behind him. “I wasn’t letting you face him alone.”
“I should’ve been there sooner,” he said, voice rough. “You shouldn’t have a single scratch.”
I reached for him, fingers brushing the cut above his eye. “You always protect me,” I whispered. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”
He leaned into my touch.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you again,” he said. “Not Chernov. Not Vargas. Not even your father. I’ll fight them all. For you.”
Then he pulled something from his coat. A silver chain. A crescent moon pendant.
He fastened it around my neck, fingers brushing my skin.
“For you, mi luna. A piece of the moon. So you never forget who you belong to—and who’s willing to bleed for you.”
His lips brushed my forehead. Not soft. Final. A mark.
And that was it.
Something inside me cracked open. Not gently. Not clean.
But it shattered all the same.
Chapter 14
MISHA
In my study, seated. I watched Luna through the CCTV feed, her fragile form curled on the couch in her wing. I had moved her closer. into my part of the house—since I brought her back from Colombia. But still, we didn’t stay in the same room. Not yet.
A blanket was draped over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with fever.
The illness had come on fast yesterday, sudden and burning, her voice weak but still razor-sharp as I carried her to bed: “I don’t need your help, Misha.” But she did. She always did. And I couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t stop the way something inside me clawed toward her—this desperate need to protect, to fix what I’d shattered.
It wasn’t just a fever. Not really.
Her body was still recovering from the beating it took when she fought off Chernov’s men in that alley, the bruises along her ribs, the split lip, the way she’d hidden her pain until her body finally gave out. I should’ve been there.
I should’ve kept her from ever having to lift a finger, much less a blade. She bled because of me, because Chernov thought he could steal her like she was nothing more than leverage.
That bastard. That coward. He touched what’s mine, he made her bleed, and I’ve never hated a man more.
I want him to suffer. Slowly. I want him to feel what she felt. The fear, the pain, the betrayal. And I want to be the one who delivers it. He thinks he’s untouchable because of the Odessaname, but I’ve ended legacies before. I’ll burn him to the ground, quietly, methodically, and when I do, I’ll make sure he knows it was for her. For Luna.
