CHAPTER 12
LIAM P.O.V.
The taste of her defiance, sharp and potent, still clung to my senses as I walked away from her studio.
Rose. Moya roza. My little thorn. She thought she was digging for a way out, for answers that would somehow liberate her.
She was, in her own stubborn way, a fool.
And yet, an undeniably captivating one. The way her eyes had flared when I’d confirmed Volkov’s name, the almost triumphant spark in them as she laid out her discoveries about the icon – it was infuriating. And goddamn exciting.
She was smart. Too smart for her own good.
And for mine, perhaps. Every secret she unearthed, every thread she unraveled from my family’s past, only tightened the invisible chains around her.
She was becoming indispensable, a part of my war, a vital, dangerous piece in the game I was playing.
And the thought of her, my historian, finding Konstantin Volkov’s hidden marks within my own collection, sent a jolt of something primal through me.
Not fear, never fear. But a colder, more lethal determination.
The snake was indeed in my garden, and he was bolder than I’d given him credit for.
I moved through the silent corridors of my penthouse, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps, my mind already shifting from Rose to the more immediate, tangible threats.
Petrov. That rat was becoming a persistent nuisance, constantly testing the boundaries, chipping away at the edges of my territory.
He was like a diseased tooth, needing to be extracted before the infection spread.
Konstantin’s report earlier had confirmed it; the union reps were talking to him. Betrayal. It was always betrayal.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A secure line, meant only for emergencies. I pulled it out, my jaw tightening as I saw Alexei’s name flash across the screen. My gaze swept over the city lights, a glittering tapestry of lives I controlled, lives I crushed. My empire.
“Morozov,” I answered, my voice flat, devoid of warmth.
“Boss, we have a situation,” Alexei’s voice was clipped, urgent, riddled with static.
The sound of distant shouts, like muffled thunder, crackled in the background.
“Perimeter breach. Sector Gamma. Car bomb, outside the East Wing parking garage. Small one, but it was a diversion. They’re making a push at the main entrance. ”
A cold, hard knot formed in my gut. A diversion. Petrov. Or something else. Volkov. Always Volkov.
“Casualties?” I barked, already moving, my long strides carrying me towards the central surveillance room.
“Minor on the outside. Two of our men down, non-critical. But they’re trying to gain entry. Heavy fire.”
“Secure the penthouse,” I commanded, my voice like steel. “No one gets in. Find out who’s behind this, Alexei. And then make them regret the day they dared to breathe my name.”
I ended the call, my mind already assessing, planning.
The East Wing. Rose’s studio was in the West Wing, but the noise, the chaos, would have reached her.
My beast roared, a possessive, territorial fury.
She was mine. She was under my protection.
And anyone who dared threaten that would pay in blood.
I bypassed the elevator, taking the service stairs two at a time, my hand already reaching for the concealed weapon at my hip. My men would handle the perimeter, but my priority was inside. My home. My woman.
The central surveillance room was a hub of controlled chaos.
Screens flickered with multiple camera feeds: the smoking crater in the parking garage, the intense firefight at the main gates, my men moving with ruthless efficiency, returning fire.
But my eyes immediately locked onto the internal cameras. I needed to see Rose.
“Status on all internal security,” I demanded, my voice cutting through the comms chatter.
“Penthouse is sealed, boss,” one of the security chiefs reported, his finger flying across a touchscreen. “Automatic locks engaged. All access points secured. We’ve redirected her personal guard, Ivan, to the West Wing. He’s with Ms. Collins now.”
Ivan. Good. Ivan was loyal. Ivan was a ghost. He would keep her safe.
But I needed to see it for myself. I slammed my hand onto the console. “Show me the West Wing. Salon.”
The screen shifted, showing the grand salon. Rose was there, standing next to her easel, the damn icon still on it. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion. Ivan stood near the door, a silent, imposing shadow, his weapon already drawn, scanning the empty corridor.
A wave of possessive relief, hot and fierce, washed over me. She was safe. For now.
The firefight outside intensified, the sharp crack of automatic weapons echoing faintly even through the reinforced walls of the penthouse.
The air vibrated with the raw energy of violence, the scent of gunpowder, though distant, almost palpable.
My men were holding the line, but this wasn't a casual skirmish. This was a direct assault. A statement.
“Who the fuck sent them?” I snarled, turning to the security chief.
“We’re running facial recognition on the attackers, boss. Some new faces, some known Petrov operatives. But their tactics... more aggressive than Petrov’s usual M.O.”
Aggressive. Yes. This felt different. More organized. More... personal.
Konstantin Volkov. The name whispered in the back of my mind, a chilling possibility. Had he truly used Petrov as a pawn? Was this his way of showing me he wasn't just lurking in the shadows, but actively striking at my very heart?
My eyes snapped back to the screen. Rose was talking to Ivan, her hands gesturing, probably asking questions.
Always questioning. My gaze lingered on her, on her delicate frame, on the vulnerable curve of her neck.
The thought of those bastards getting their hands on her, of them violating what was mine, sent a red haze of pure, unadulterated rage through me.
They would burn. Every last one of them.
“Tell Ivan to move Ms. Collins to the panic room in the master suite,” I commanded, my voice like crushed ice. “Immediately. Lock it down. No one in, no one out. I’m on my way.”
I stormed out of the surveillance room, my anger a living, breathing entity coiling in my gut.
The fight outside was still raging, but the immediate threat to the penthouse seemed contained.
My men were monsters, trained to kill. They would hold.
But Rose... she was not one of them. She was a delicate piece of art in a world of blood and steel. My delicate piece.
I reached the West Wing, the air here still and unnervingly quiet after the distant echoes of battle. The salon door was ajar. I pushed it open, my hand on my gun, my eyes scanning the room.
Rose stood in the middle, looking at me, her face still pale, but that spark of defiance already returning to her blue-green eyes. Ivan stood behind her, his weapon now holstered, a silent guardian.
“Morozov!” she gasped, her voice sharp with a mix of fear and anger. “What the hell was that?”
I ignored her question, my gaze sweeping over her, searching for any sign of injury, any tremor. She was unharmed. My chest constricted with a relief so profound it felt like pain.
“Ivan,” I commanded, my voice low, dangerous, “move Ms. Collins to the panic room. Now.”
“Liam, what’s happening?” Rose demanded, stepping forward, trying to challenge me, even now. “I heard explosions. Gunshots. What did you get yourself into?”
I took two long strides, closing the distance between us, my hand reaching out, not gently, but with a possessive grip, wrapping around her forearm. Her skin was cold.
“You’re asking too many questions, moya roza,” I growled, pulling her towards me, my eyes burning into hers. “Your job is to be safe. Mine is to ensure it.” I turned to Ivan. “Now.”
Ivan nodded, moving to open a hidden panel in the wall, revealing the reinforced steel door of the panic room. Rose resisted, pulling against my grip.
“I’m not a child, Liam!” she hissed, her eyes blazing. “I want to know what’s going on. Who attacked us?”
My patience, already thin, snapped. I tightened my grip, pulling her flush against my chest, her body tense against mine. The faint scent of her, of her art studio, of her own unique fire, filled my senses, a dangerous aphrodisiac in the midst of chaos.
“You want to know what’s going on?” I rasped, my lips brushing her ear, my voice a low, predatory growl. “This, Rose, is my world. This is what happens when rats dare to nibble at my empire. And you,” I squeezed her arm, a silent warning, “you are a part of that empire now. My part.”
She flinched, but her chin remained stubbornly high. Ivan was already inside the panic room, waiting. I shoved her gently but firmly towards the entrance.
“Go,” I ordered, my voice laced with a threat. “I will deal with this.”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, with a glare that promised future rebellion, she stepped inside the panic room. Ivan followed, and the heavy steel door hissed shut, sealing her away.
The silence that followed was unnerving. The distant sounds of the battle were fading. My men had won. But the fury within me still raged, cold and relentless. They had dared to come for what was mine. They had dared to put her in danger.
I walked back to the surveillance room, my mind already calculating the cost, the retaliation. Petrov. Volkov. They would all pay. This was a challenge, not just to my power, but to my claim. And I would respond with overwhelming force.