CHAPTER 10
ROSE P.O.V.
The chill of the brick pressed against my spine, a cold comfort in the pre-dawn gloom.
My foot throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against the silence, but my mind, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, was frighteningly clear.
Volkov wanted to break me. Liam wanted to reclaim me.
And in the space between those two warring desires, I, Rose Collins, the naive art historian, had found a sliver of terrifying agency. A twisted, brutal kind of freedom.
The newspaper headline about the Morozov hit kept flashing behind my eyes, a sickening loop of fear and denial.
Liam. Falling. Wounded. No. My gut clenched.
That wasn’t possible. Liam Morozov was a force of nature, a creature of iron and ice.
He didn’t just fall. He wouldn’t. The thought was a lifeline, a desperate prayer in the chaos.
I peeled myself from the wall, gritting my teeth against the searing pain in my ankle.
Each step was a battle, a clumsy shuffle that sent fresh jolts of agony up my leg.
My dress, torn and filthy, offered little protection against the biting wind that whipped through the alley, carrying with it the metallic tang of rain and the stale scent of human desperation.
I was a scarecrow, a walking wound, but I was moving. And moving was surviving.
My stomach growled, a hollow, aching protest. I hadn’t eaten since... since Varya’s bread. Days. It felt like a lifetime. Thirst was a burning inferno in my throat. I needed water. Food. A goddamn plan.
The alley opened onto a wider street, still deserted.
Dim streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that danced with my fear.
I hugged the shadows, moving with a cautious, almost animalistic instinct I hadn’t known I possessed.
My eyes, once trained on brushstrokes and ancient symbols, now darted, scanning for threats, for opportunities, for a way out.
A distant siren wailed, then another, closer this time, their mournful cries echoing through the urban canyon. Volkov’s men. Or Liam’s. Or both. The city was a chessboard, and I was a pawn caught between two warring kings, though one of them, I prayed, was still standing.
I passed boarded-up storefronts, the glass long gone, replaced by plywood.
My gaze snagged on a discarded plastic bottle, half-filled with murky water.
A desperate urge to grab it, to chug its questionable contents, warred with the memory of Liam’s disgusted snarls about hygiene.
Don’t be stupid, Rose. Use your fucking head.
I pressed on, the thought of drinking stagnant water almost as repulsive as the thought of being recaptured.
I needed to blend. To disappear. But how? My mind raced, sifting through options. Call for help? Who? My family was the reason I was here. The police? They were likely in Volkov’s pocket, or too terrified to cross him. I was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone.
Then, a flicker. A memory of Liam’s collection, of the maps hidden beneath the gilded frames.
He always said, “Know your terrain. Know your enemy’s blind spots.
” I might not have maps, but I had eyes.
And a mind that could, perhaps, piece together the puzzle of this brutal city.
I began to observe, truly observe. The direction of the sirens.
The types of cars parked. The subtle graffiti tags that might mark territory.
My eyes snagged on a flickering neon sign in the distance, a blurry splash of red against the graying sky. A dive bar, probably. Or something worse. But it meant people. And where there were people, there might be a chance. A chance for information. A chance for a temporary haven.
I limped towards the light, the cold wind biting at my exposed skin.
The street gradually became less deserted, although still sparsely populated.
A couple of homeless men huddled in doorways, their faces shadowed and indifferent.
I kept my gaze down, unwilling to meet their eyes, to invite any unwanted attention.
The sounds grew louder as I approached the flickering red glow: a low hum of chatter, the clink of glasses, the mournful twang of a cheap guitar.
A bordello. Of course. The scent of stale beer, cheap perfume, and desperation hung heavy in the air.
Not a sanctuary, perhaps, but a place where questions might be answered, where faces changed, where the rules of the respectable world didn’t apply.
I hesitated at the threshold, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. The fear was a cold knot in my stomach. But the fire Liam had ignited within me, the stubborn refusal to break, pushed me forward. I pushed open the grimy, heavy door, the brass bell above it jingling, announcing my arrival.
All heads turned. A dozen pairs of eyes, hard and assessing, fell on me.
Women in various states of undress, men with faces etched by hard living and secrets.
I felt like an alien, a creature dropped from another world into this den of sinners.
But I stood my ground, clutching the small, carved bird in my trembling hand, my chin held high.
A woman with a heavily painted face and eyes that had seen too much detached herself from the bar. She was older, her body still voluptuous beneath a sequined dress, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Lost, kitten?” she asked, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Or looking for a new home?”
I swallowed, my throat dry. “Neither,” I managed, my voice surprisingly steady. “I’m... looking for information. A name. Liam Morozov.”
A hush fell over the room, thicker than the smoke. The older woman’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. Fear. Respect. Knowledge.
“Morozov,” she repeated, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.
“A dangerous name to speak in this part of town, little bird. Especially now. You got blood on your dress. You look like you just crawled out of a rat’s nest.” Her gaze lingered on my bruised face, on the tear in my dress. “You one of his? Or one of theirs?”
“I’m... complicated,” I said, a faint, bitter smile touching my lips. “I’m looking for him. I need to know if he’s alive. And where I can find him.”
She studied me for a long moment, a strange calculation in her eyes.
“There’s a war brewing, kitten. And it’s all about Morozov and Volkov.
Half the city thinks Morozov is dead, the other half thinks he’s a ghost haunting Volkov’s operations.
” She paused, her gaze raking over me again, then she nodded slowly.
“Maybe you’re worth the risk. What’s your name? ”
“Rose,” I replied, my voice gaining strength. “Rose Collins.”
“Come with me, Rose Collins,” she said, turning and leading me through a beaded curtain at the back of the room. “My name is Katerina. And I know a few things about surviving a man like Morozov.”
Katerina led me to a small, cluttered office, filled with stacks of ledgers, a clunky old computer, and the scent of rose incense trying to mask the omnipresent stench of the bordello.
She offered me a glass of water, which I gratefully gulped down, and a stale piece of bread.
It wasn't much, but it was sustenance, and it felt like a feast.
“Liam Morozov is not dead,” Katerina said, her voice matter-of-fact as she watched me eat.
“Not if the fires burning across the city are any indication. He’s a beast unleashed, tearing through Volkov’s territory.
They say he’s looking for something. Something he lost.” Her eyes met mine, a knowing glint within them. “Or someone.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of profound relief and renewed terror. He was alive. He was coming for me.
“Where is he?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Katerina leaned back in her chair, lighting a slim cigarette. “He’s hitting Volkov hard. Moving fast. His men are like shadows, but the trail of blood they leave... it leads to the docks. Old Morozov territory. Volkov’s trying to move a major shipment tonight. Liam will be there.”
The docks. My mind flashed to the map in Liam’s penthouse, the intricate web of shipping lanes and warehouses. It was a war zone. But it was also where I needed to be.
“I need to get there,” I said, pushing the last piece of bread into my mouth.
Katerina just blew a plume of smoke, her eyes assessing. “You want to run into the lion’s den, little bird? You’ll be torn apart.”
“I’m already in it,” I countered, standing, my body still aching but filled with a new, desperate resolve. “And I’d rather face the lion than the snakes that held me.”
She smiled then, a grim, knowing curve of her lips.
“Alright, Rose. There’s a back way. Follow the old rail lines, they lead straight to the industrial docks, Sector G.
It’s a mess out there. A fucking bloodbath, probably.
” She paused, her eyes softening slightly.
“Be careful, dorogaya. Some cages are harder to escape than others.”
I nodded, gripping the carved bird tightly. “Thank you, Katerina.”
I slipped out the back, following the abandoned rail lines, the scent of the sea growing stronger with every painful step.
The air was thick with tension, a sense of impending storm.
Distant shouts, sporadic gunfire, and the rumble of heavy machinery echoed through the night.
The docks were alive with the sounds of battle.
My foot screamed, but I ignored it, pushing through the pain, through the fear. Liam. He was there. And I, against all logic, against every instinct of self-preservation, was running towards him. Towards the chaos. Towards the man who was both my captor and, perhaps, my only hope.