CHAPTER 4
LIAM P.O.V.
The taste of iron was a constant companion, less a memory and more a living presence, a subtle tang at the back of my throat.
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks I’d spent in the hazy purgatory of recovery, the pain a relentless drumbeat against my skull and a vise around my ribs.
Ivan’s “old methods” were nothing short of brutal, pushing my body to its breaking point and then beyond.
But with every grueling exercise, every searing stretch, every bitter dose of herbs, the phantom image of Rose, terrified and screaming as they dragged her away, fueled a cold, white-hot rage that eclipsed the physical agony.
She was out there. And I was here. It was a dichotomy that tore at my soul, making every breath a goddamn fight.
“Again, Morozov,” Ivan’s voice, raspy as sandpaper, cut through the quiet hum of the old generator in the corner of this decrepit gym. He stood over me, his grizzled face impassive, a thick wooden staff in his hand. “Your left arm. It still hesitates. Like a timid boy.”
I gritted my teeth, sweat stinging my eyes as I pushed through another set of brutal pull-ups, my bandaged ribs protesting with a dull, throbbing ache.
My left arm, the one they’d tried to break, screamed in protest. “It’s not hesitation,” I snarled, dropping to the floor, my muscles burning. “It’s controlled fury.”
Ivan merely grunted, a cynical sound. “Fury is good. But fury without precision is just a tantrum.” He gestured to the punching bag, a heavy canvas sack stained with my blood and sweat. “Five minutes. Uncontrolled. Then five minutes. Controlled. Show me the difference, brat.”
I didn’t need an invitation. The image of Volkov, that old snake, and his masked men, their hands on my Rose, flooded my mind.
I saw the glint of the needle, the metallic hook.
Rose, terrified. The thought alone was enough to make the world narrow to a red haze.
I moved, a blur of motion, slamming my fists into the canvas, each blow a grunt, a curse, a promise of retribution.
The bag swayed wildly, the impact rattling my recovering bones, but I didn’t care.
This was for her. Every punch was for Rose.
For the fear they had put in her eyes. For the pain they were surely inflicting.
My lungs burned, my vision swam, but I pushed harder, faster. Five minutes felt like an eternity and a blink. When Ivan’s hand clamped down on my shoulder, I was almost grateful for the reprieve.
“Good,” he said, his voice flat. “Now, control.”
I took a few ragged breaths, forcing the red haze back.
My focus sharpened. I remembered the feeling of a target, the precise angle of a jaw, the vulnerable point of a gut.
Volkov. His network. Every blow became a calculated strike against them, against the men who had dared to touch what was mine.
My movements became fluid, precise, each punch carrying a lethal intent.
This wasn’t just about making them pay; it was about tearing their world apart, piece by bloody piece.
Later, in the cramped, sterile room that served as my temporary office, the frustration gnawed at me like a persistent parasite.
My men, the few still loyal and not compromised by Volkov’s deep infiltration, were ghosts, moving through the city’s shadows, trying to untangle the web.
The reports were trickling in, fragmented, inconclusive.
Volkov had indeed moved swiftly, cementing his power, eliminating rivals, and tightening his grip on the Bratva’s assets.
Valentin was a footnote, a disposable pawn.
Dmitri, my dead brother, was still a ghost Ivan refused to acknowledge beyond his grave.
My subtle probes about “old ghosts stirring” had gone nowhere.
“Any word on her?” I demanded into the secure phone, my voice raw, the desperation a bitter taste on my tongue. My contact, a man named Vasily, a grizzled veteran with eyes that saw too much, hesitated on the other end.
“Nothing, Pakhan,” Vasily replied, his voice heavy. “No ransom demands, no threats. It’s like she vanished. Clean. Too clean. But we picked up chatter. Whispers. The old councilmen... they’re celebrating. Saying ‘the Morozov pet has been tamed.’ They know something.”
A wave of pure, unadulterated fury washed over me, making my hand clench around the phone so hard the plastic creaked.
Tamed. The word was a fresh insult, a fresh lash against my already raw nerves.
Rose wouldn’t be tamed. She would fight.
She would scream. She would bleed. And the thought of her bleeding, of her pain, twisted something vital inside me.
“Find the source of that chatter,” I snarled, my voice low and dangerous. “Bring me names. Bring me locations. And if any of those old bastards laid a hand on her, I will personally carve out their fucking hearts.”
“Understood, Pakhan,” Vasily said, his voice tight. He knew I wasn’t making idle threats. He’d seen enough of my wrath.
I slammed the phone down, the sound echoing in the small room.
My gaze swept over the sparse surroundings.
This wasn’t my penthouse. It wasn’t my territory.
It was a temporary tomb, a cage, no matter how much space it gave me to recover.
I needed to move. I needed to be out there, tearing the city apart with my bare hands if necessary.
But Ivan was right. I was still weak. Not weak enough to be broken, but weak enough to be caught off guard.
And that was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not now. Not with Rose.
The day dragged on, a torment of forced rest and endless, frustrating reports. I was recovering, yes, but every muscle still ached, every deep breath was a small, painful reminder of how close I’d come to death. How close she had come to being utterly alone.
As night fell, a suffocating silence settled over the hideout. Ivan was out, consolidating intelligence, moving pieces on his own clandestine chessboard. I was alone, left with my thoughts, and the agonizing void of Rose’s absence.
My feet, still sore from Ivan’s torturous conditioning, carried me restlessly through the barren halls.
I found myself drawn to a small, sealed box Ivan had retrieved from my penthouse.
A box of personal effects, salvaged from the carnage.
I hadn’t touched it, hadn’t wanted to confront the ghosts.
But tonight, the emptiness was too much.
I tore the seal, tossing the tape aside. Inside, a few trinkets. My expensive watch, a silver cufflink, a framed photo of my father, his eyes as cold and unforgiving as mine. And then, at the bottom, tucked beneath a crumpled silk tie, I saw it.
Her camisole.
It was a delicate slip of black lace and silk, impossibly soft, impossibly fragile.
The kind of thing she wore beneath her dresses, or sometimes, when she was feeling particularly defiant, as a teasing cover to her bare skin when she stalked around the penthouse, daring me to react.
The sight of it hit me with the force of a physical blow, sharper than any punch Ivan had delivered.
I picked it up, my fingers tracing the delicate lace, the smooth, cool silk.
Her scent. It clung to the fabric, faint but undeniable.
A mix of old books, rosewater, and that unique, intoxicating scent of her skin, especially after we’d been...
together. It filled my nostrils, a potent drug that instantly transported me back. Back to her.
Her fiery eyes, narrowed in defiance even as I kissed her.
Her small, strong hands pushing against my chest, then clenching in my hair as I plundered her mouth.
The feel of her curves pressed against me, the soft give of her breasts, the way her hips arched instinctively against mine.
The taste of her. God, the taste of her, sweet and wild.
A groan tore from my throat, raw and anguished, laced with desperate hunger. I brought the camisole to my face, inhaling deeply, trying to pull her essence into my lungs, into my very being. It was a torment, a cruel reminder of what they had taken from me. Of what they were doing to her.
My body stirred, a deep, insistent ache in my groin, a hard, throbbing demand that echoed the rage in my chest. Fuck.
This wasn’t just about lust. This was about possession, about fury, about a primal need to reclaim what was mine.
To brand her, to cover her in my scent, to make her scream my name until she forgot every single bastard who dared to lay a hand on her.
I walked into the small, sterile bathroom, the camisole clutched in my hand. I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror: a bruised, scarred man with eyes that burned with a dangerous, untamed fire. A monster. Her monster.
I dropped the camisole onto the counter, its black lace a stark contrast to the white porcelain.
My hand went to the waistband of my scrubs, pulling them down, my cock springing free, already hard and throbbing, thick with blood and need.
I stared at it, at the physical manifestation of my obsessive hunger for her.
My fingers closed around myself, a rough, insistent grip. The friction was immediate, a desperate release. My eyes closed, and her image, vivid and brutal, filled my mind.
Rose.
I saw her, spread beneath me on the cold, hard conference table in my office, her skirt hiked up, her legs wrapped around my waist, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
Her head thrown back, a raw moan tearing from her throat as I plunged into her, again and again, claiming her, marking her.
Her eyes, wide and dazed, watching me with a mixture of fear and desperate pleasure as I drove into her, knotting my fingers in her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Say my name, moya roza,” I heard my own voice, rough and possessive, echo in the cavern of my mind. “Say it for me, little fucking whore.”
And she did. Her voice, choked and breathless, a desperate plea and a willing surrender. “Liam! Oh, God, Liam!”
My hips bucked against my hand, the memories fueling the fire, making me push harder, faster.
The image of her against the wall, her legs wrapped around me, her nails digging into my ass as I slammed into her, her whimpers echoing in the penthouse.
Her body, arching, desperate, taking all of me.
The way her lips parted, swollen and red, from my kisses.
The sharp slap of my hand against her ass, the dark bruising bloom beneath her skin, a mark of my ownership.
My breath hitched, a guttural sound torn from my throat.
I pictured her in that dungeon, bruised, terrified, but still defiant.
And the thought of those bastards touching her, hurting her, made my orgasm a violent, furious release.
My body convulsed, a deep, shuddering climax, my seed spurting hot against my hand, against the cold porcelain sink.
“Mine,” I rasped, the word a desperate plea, a furious promise. “You are mine, Rose. And I’m coming for you. All of you. You hear me, Volkov? You hear me, you old bastard? You touched what was mine. And you will fucking burn.”
My body trembled, spent, but my mind was clearer now, sharpened by the raw, brutal release.
This wasn’t just about revenge. It was about reclaiming her.
Her body, her defiance, her stubborn spirit.
And I would tear through hell itself to get her back.
Every scream she uttered, every tear she shed, every bruise they put on her skin would be paid for in blood.
Volkov would learn. They would all learn.
The Morozovs didn’t forget. And they didn’t forgive.
I stared at my reflection again, my eyes burning with a renewed, dangerous resolve.
The camisole lay on the counter, a silent testament to the woman who had captivated me, who had broken through my ice.
She was in pain. She was waiting. And I was coming.
I wouldn’t just send my men. I would lead the charge.
And the city would run red with the blood of every man who stood between me and my Rose.