CHAPTER 22
LIAM P.O.V.
Dmitri’s eyes, blazing with an unholy fire, were on Rose.
He wasn't even looking at me anymore, not truly. His focus, warped by Konstantin’s poison and his own festering hatred, had narrowed to the woman who stood, trembling, just beyond my reach.
"The bitch!" he’d snarled, his voice a raw, ugly sound that scraped against my eardrums. "You let that whore poison your mind, destroy everything?
!" The rifle in his hands, clutched in a white-knuckled grip, swung towards her, a slow, deliberate movement that ripped through the last shred of my self-control.
My world shattered. Rose. My Rose. Vulnerable. Exposed. The red haze that had been simmering beneath my skin erupted, turning the chaotic foundry into a blinding inferno of primal rage. No one touches what’s mine. Not my empire. Not my life. And especially not her.
A guttural roar, torn from the deepest, darkest pit of my soul, ripped through me.
It wasn't human. It was the sound of a beast protecting its mate, a Morozov unleashed. I lunged, a blur of pure, unadulterated fury, my discarded rifle clattering uselessly against the concrete. Dmitri’s shot, meant for Rose, went wide as I slammed into him, a brutal, bone-jarring tackle that sent us both sprawling to the ground.
The impact knocked the wind from my lungs, but I barely registered the pain.
All I saw was his face, twisted with hatred, all I felt was the burning need to crush him, to obliterate him for daring to even think about harming her.
He was thinner than me, fueled by drugs and a manic, fanatical zeal, but his desperation lent him a surprising strength.
His hands, claw-like, grappled for my throat, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he tried to choke the life from me.
I met his assault with a savage fury born of years of suppressed violence, years of watching my father become the monster he was, years of burying my own darkness under a veneer of cold control.
Now, that control was gone. It was just me and my brother, in the dirt, fighting to the fucking death.
My fist connected with his jaw, a sickening crunch that echoed even over the muffled gunshots still reverberating through the complex.
He staggered, spitting blood, but a wild, manic laugh bubbled from his lips.
“You think that hurts me, brother?” he rasped, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying light.
“I’ve lived in hell! Konstantin showed me the way!
He showed me your weakness, your softness!
That bitch...” His gaze, even as I pinned him, darted towards where Rose had been standing, hidden behind the steel beam.
The mention of her, the slur on her name, was a fresh wave of gasoline on my fire.
My vision narrowed to a pinprick. My blood surged, hot and roaring, a primal symphony in my ears.
I twisted, using my superior weight and raw strength, slamming him against the cold, unforgiving concrete.
His head bounced, a sickening thud, and for a moment, his eyes glazed over.
But the bastard was resilient. He bucked, elbowing me in the ribs, a sharp, searing pain that made me grunt.
He clawed at my face, leaving stinging scratches.
I ignored it all. This wasn't about pain anymore. It was about absolute annihilation.
My hands found his wrists, twisting them, crushing bone, forcing a choked cry from his lips.
I slammed his head down again, then again, and again, the dull thuds a brutal rhythm against the clamor of the foundry.
His struggles weakened, his body going limp under my assault.
For a second, a flicker of something — a memory of a younger Dmitri, a boy with bright eyes and a mischievous grin, before the shadows of our family consumed him — flashed through my mind.
It was gone as quickly as it came, obliterated by the present reality: a madman who had threatened my woman.
“You won’t touch her,” I growled, my voice raw, ragged, my breath heavy in my lungs.
I straddled him, my knees pinning his shoulders, my hands still crushing his wrists.
He was beaten, bloodied, barely conscious.
But his eyes, even in their dazed state, still held a spark of that manic hatred, that twisted obsession. And then I saw it. A glint of metal.
His fingers, even in their broken state, were twitching, inching towards a discarded knife on the ground, just beyond his reach.
He was going for it. One last, desperate attempt.
To get to Rose. To finish his master’s work.
To twist the knife in my heart by hurting the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.
The breath caught in my throat. This wasn't over. Not until he was truly incapacitated. Permanently.
My gaze snapped to Rose, still hidden, but her frantic whimpers, her terrified cries, were a raw, desperate music in my ears.
She was watching. She was witnessing this.
The true, brutal nature of her 'king'. And I hated it, hated that she had to see this ugliness, this savagery.
But I would not hesitate. Not for her. Not for us.
My eyes swept the immediate vicinity, my mind racing.
A quick, brutal solution. My rifle was too far.
Vasily was engaged, as were Sergei and Anatoly, pushing into the main chamber, maintaining suppressing fire.
No time to shout. No time for a clean, measured shot.
Dmitri's fingers were still twitching, still reaching for that blade.
My eyes landed on the Glock 19 that had fallen from a dead guard’s hand just feet away.
It lay glinting on the concrete, a dark, silent promise.
I didn't think. Not about the consequences, not about the brother I would be putting down, not about the finality of it all.
Only about Rose. Only about protecting her, ensuring her safety.
I released Dmitri’s broken wrists, launching myself forward, a desperate lunge for the weapon. My fingers closed around the cold metal, gripping it tight. Dmitri’s eyes, even in his daze, followed my movement, a flicker of understanding, then pure, unadulterated terror. He knew. He finally knew.
“No, brother!” he choked out, his voice a desperate, broken plea. His hand, now free, shot out, reaching for me, not the knife, a desperate, final attempt to stop me, to appeal to something human within me.
But there was no humanity left in me, not in this moment. Only the beast. Only the protector.
My hand came up, steady and unyielding. The Glock, heavy and cold, pointed directly at his chest. His eyes, wide with sudden, agonizing comprehension, locked onto mine. A silent question. A silent plea. A silent condemnation. All gone in the blink of an eye.
I squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked, unnaturally loud in the now-thinning steam, echoing through the cavernous foundry.
The sound was deafening, final. Dmitri’s body stiffened, a violent, involuntary spasm, then went completely limp.
His eyes, still wide and staring, glazed over, fixing on some unseen point above him.
A dark, crimson stain bloomed rapidly across his chest, seeping into the grimy fabric of his jacket.
He was gone. My brother. The last remnant of my bloodline. Extinguished by my own hand.
The heavy silence that followed the shot was more deafening than any battle cry.
The adrenaline, which had been pumping through my veins like molten lead, suddenly drained, leaving me cold, hollowed out.
My breath hitched, a ragged, painful gasp.
The gun felt impossibly heavy in my hand, still smoking, still warm from the recent death it had inflicted.
My gaze, numb and unseeing, lingered on Dmitri’s dead eyes for a moment. No triumph. No satisfaction. Just a bitter, crushing emptiness. This was what it came down to. This was the cost of my empire. This was the price of keeping what was mine.
Then, my eyes snapped to Rose. She was still behind the beam, her body trembling, her hands clamped over her mouth, muffling a choked sob. Her eyes, wide and dilated with horror, were fixed on me, on the gun in my hand, on the body of my dead brother.
The raw, primal instinct to protect her, to claim her, to make her forget the ugliness she had just witnessed, surged back with an overwhelming force. I dropped the Glock. It clattered against the concrete, its metallic clang jarring in the silence.
I moved, my legs stiff, towards her. Every fiber of my being screamed for her. I needed to touch her. To pull her into me. To bury myself in her warmth and her scent, to purge the image of Dmitri’s dying gaze from my mind.
She didn’t move. Her gaze, still locked on mine, was a mixture of fear, shock, and something else...
something that looked like dawning horror, a stark, terrifying question.
It wasn't hatred. Not yet. But it was doubt.
A deep, fracturing doubt that threatened to tear through the fragile trust we had painstakingly built.
I reached her, my hands rising, cupping her face, forcing her to look at me.
Her skin was cold, clammy. Her breath hitched.
I pulled her to me, roughly, possessively, burying my face in her hair, inhaling her scent, trying to anchor myself in her, in the one good thing, the one pure thing, left in my fucked-up world.
“Mine,” I growled, my voice raw, broken, my lips pressed against her temple. “You’re mine, Rose. Always. No one. No fucking one touches you. He forced my hand.”
Her body was stiff against mine, trembling, not returning the embrace. Her hands, which usually clung to me with a fierce desperation, hung limp at her sides. She felt like a stranger, a ghost in my arms. Her silence was louder than any scream.
I pulled back, just enough to look into her eyes.
They were swimming with unshed tears, but beneath the fear, beneath the shock, was that cold, unwavering question.
A silent accusation. The light in her eyes, that fierce, defiant spark, seemed dimmed, replaced by a chilling uncertainty.
She saw me. Not Liam Morozov, the powerful Pakhan.
But Liam Morozov, the monster who had just executed his own blood.
The victory, the triumph of eliminating Dmitri, felt like ash in my mouth. It was hollow, bitter. I had saved her. I had protected her. But at what cost?
Her gaze dropped from my eyes, sliding over my blood-soaked tactical vest, then down to where Dmitri’s body lay, lifeless and still, a gruesome testament to my choice. Her jaw clenched, a muscle working furiously.
“Liam...” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile, broken sound that tore through me more effectively than any bullet. It wasn't a question. It was a realization. A dawning horror of the true nature of the man she had allowed herself to fall for.
I pulled her closer again, tighter, my arms wrapping around her like a cage, crushing her against my blood-soaked body. I didn’t care that she was stiff, that she wasn’t responding. I would make her understand. I would make her see. I had done this for her. For us. And I would make her accept it.
My lips found hers, demanding, bruising, a desperate attempt to silence the questions in her eyes, to brand her as mine once more.
Her mouth was soft, unyielding, tasting of fear and unshed tears.
She didn’t kiss me back. Not truly. Her body was there, present, but her soul felt a million miles away.
“We’re not done,” I rasped against her lips, forcing the words out, trying to reassure her, to reassure myself. “This was just a piece. Konstantin is still out there. We still have to finish this. Together.”
But her eyes, when she finally looked at me again, were cold. Full of a raw, quiet devastation. The love, the passion that had blazed between us, was now shadowed by a terrifying chasm. I had saved her life. But I might have just lost her heart. The taste of victory was bile in my throat.
TO BE CONTINUED...
NEXT BOOK: The Final Claim
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