CHAPTER 3
ROSE P.O.V.
The click of the heavy door was a death knell, echoing in the suffocating silence Liam had left behind.
He was gone, but his presence, the weight of his brutal claim, still pressed down on me, heavy as a shroud.
The master bedroom, a mausoleum of cool grays and silvers, seemed to mock me with its opulent sterility.
King-sized bed, plush rugs, expensive artwork on the walls – all a gilded cage. A prison wrapped in silk.
My ass still ached from the impact of landing on the mattress, and my bad foot throbbed a slow, angry rhythm against the sudden quiet.
I sat there for a long moment, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles were white, staring at the closed door, half-expecting him to burst back in, to finish the conversation that had never truly begun.
But he didn’t. He had given his orders, made his threats, and then he’d vanished, leaving me to contend with the aftermath.
My stomach lurched, threatening to spill its meager contents.
The scent of gunpowder and blood, still clinging to my clothes, to my hair, felt like an invisible shroud, a constant reminder.
Dmitri. The image of him, crumpled on the concrete, was burned behind my eyelids.
Liam’s hand, so steady, so lethal, on the trigger.
He’d done it for me. Killed his own brother.
And in that sickening, final shot, he’d shattered something irreplaceable inside me.
The silence grew heavier, pressing in, until I couldn't breathe.
I needed to move. To escape the phantom scent, the crushing weight of everything.
I pushed myself off the bed, a wince tearing through me as my injured foot took my weight.
It hurt, a sharp, dull ache that was a welcome distraction from the deeper, more profound pain in my soul.
Every step was a conscious effort, a stumble toward a semblance of control.
My eyes scanned the room. A walk-in closet, a bathroom – both promised escape, if only for a moment.
I limped towards the bathroom, the cool marble floors a stark contrast to the rough concrete of the foundry.
The air was clean here, infused with the subtle scent of expensive soaps.
I saw my reflection in the vast mirror above the double vanity: a ghost, pale and wide-eyed, hair tangled, clothes ripped and stained.
A smear of blood, tiny and dark, just below my ear.
His blood? Dmitri’s? I didn’t know. Didn't want to know.
My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, the fabric gritty beneath my touch.
I stripped off the ruined clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, a disgusting pile of evidence.
My skin prickled, as if the grime and the horror had seeped into my pores. I needed to scrub it off. All of it.
I stepped into the oversized shower, turning the faucet until the water ran scalding hot.
The jets hammered against my skin, a physical assault that almost matched the internal turmoil.
I scrubbed, relentlessly, with a bar of thick, scented soap, until my skin was red and raw.
The water ran pink, then clear, washing away the tangible remnants of the night.
But the invisible stains remained. The cold, paralyzing horror.
The lingering taste of Liam's possessive kiss, a brand on my lips.
The sickening, undeniable flicker of heat my body still remembered, even craved, despite my screaming mind.
My body was a fucking traitor, always responding to his danger, his power, his brutal touch. It made me sick.
I closed my eyes, letting the water drum against my face, trying to drown out the echoes of the gunshots, the image of Dmitri falling.
He did it for you. The thought screamed in my head.
He saved you. But at what cost? At the cost of his own humanity, and maybe, at the cost of mine.
Because a piece of me, the part that saw good, that hoped for light, had been extinguished with Dmitri’s last breath.
When the water finally ran cold, I stepped out, my body shivering, but my mind no clearer.
I wrapped myself in a plush, white towel, its softness a stark contrast to the hardness that now defined my world.
The closet. Liam had said there were clothes.
I limped towards it, the pain in my foot a dull, constant companion.
The closet was a cavern of designer clothes, all new, all expensive, all chosen for me, no doubt.
Dresses, skirts, soft loungewear. Nothing that felt like me.
Nothing that felt like Rose, the art historian, the free spirit.
These were the clothes of a captive, a possession, chosen by her captor.
I pulled out a silk robe, its fabric a deep sapphire blue, and slipped it on.
It felt alien, luxurious but restrictive, a uniform for my gilded cage.
My gaze fell upon a small, antique writing desk tucked into a corner of the room. It was out of place in this modern, sterile opulence, a beautiful piece of dark wood with intricate carvings. It called to me. A way to anchor myself. To find my own voice amidst the deafening roar of his.
I sat down, the leather of the chair cool against my bare skin under the robe.
My fingers traced the delicate carvings on the desk, searching for a pen, for paper.
I found a small, leather-bound journal and a silver pen in one of the drawers.
It was too perfect. Too convenient. No doubt, another calculated move from Liam, anticipating my need to process, to document.
He knew me, even in my defiance. He saw the historian in me, the one who needed to record.
It almost felt like another manipulation.
I opened the journal to the first blank page. The crisp, clean paper stared back at me, waiting to be sullied by the blood and darkness swirling in my mind. What could I write? Where would I even begin?
The world had fractured. I’d thought that before, hadn’t I?
When I first met Liam. When I was dragged into this life.
But that was nothing. That was merely a tremor.
This was the fucking earthquake. The earth had split open, and I had seen the true, terrifying abyss of Liam Morozov.
And the terrifying truth of my own lingering attraction to it.
No. That was for my story. This was for me.
Journal Entry: Day Unknown, Location Unknown, State of Mind: Shattered.
I began to write, the silver pen scratching against the paper, each word a desperate attempt to create order out of the chaos.
I wrote about the foundry, the metallic tang of blood, the acrid smoke.
I wrote about Dmitri, his eyes wide, vacant, staring at nothing.
I wrote about the raw, visceral shock of watching a man die, at the hands of the man who claimed to love me.
The words poured out, unfiltered, raw. I didn't care about grammar or prose. This wasn't for an audience. This was for survival. A way to dump the horror onto the page, to create a physical record of the unbearable truth.
He said it was necessary. He said it was for me. My hand pressed harder, almost tearing the page. Is there a line? A boundary, he will not cross? And if he will cross any line, for me, what does that make me? His accomplice? His justification?
I recounted his words, his touch, the way his lips had devoured mine moments before the shot, moments after.
The desperation. The possessiveness. The fear.
And that sickening, traitorous heat that flared in my stomach even now, a visceral response to his brutal magnetism.
My body was a cage, too, trapping me in desires I couldn't comprehend, could never truly accept, not after what I had witnessed.
I wrote about the feeling of being carried, a broken doll, in his arms. The warmth of his body, the chilling smear of blood on his uniform against my cheek.
The way my hands had hovered, unable to cling, unable to push away.
That horrifying limbo. My silent protest. His forced acceptance of my silence, even as his eyes demanded something else.
He wants me by his side. Whether I like it or not. The words were a brand, searing themselves into the paper. You are mine. A threat, a promise, a chain.
My thoughts drifted to Konstantin Volkov, the true mastermind, the shadowy puppet master Liam had described.
Dmitri had been a pawn, his anger manipulated.
Liam’s father, perhaps, too. The layers of betrayal stretched back further than I could comprehend.
A war of generations, and I, Rose Collins, the art historian, was now squarely in the middle of it.
A piece. A trophy. A moya roza for a man whose hands were steeped in blood.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I, who restored history, was now caught in a brutal, unfolding saga that would be written in blood. And I was writing it down, meticulously, as if putting it on paper would make it less real, less horrifying. It didn't. It only made it more concrete, more inescapable.
The pen scraped on, filling page after page. My hand ached, but I couldn't stop. Each word was a tiny release, a minuscule sliver of control I could reclaim. This was my truth. Not his. Not theirs. Mine.
I remembered the blurb for this book. The blood on his hands saved me, but it stained my soul.
I reread the words, my own words, now filled with a crushing new weight of understanding.
I had seen the monster. The man who would sacrifice anything.
And I still burned for him. That was the most terrifying realization of all.
The conflict raging within me was as brutal as any mafia war.
The penthouse was silent. Too silent. The hum of the city, usually a distant comfort, felt oppressive, keeping me isolated.
Was Liam in his command center now, barking orders, consolidating his power, plotting his next move against Volkov?
Was he thinking of me? Or was I merely another asset, a pawn to be guarded, to be possessed?
A wave of exhaustion washed over me, heavy and suffocating.
My eyes burned, but the tears wouldn’t come.
They felt trapped, frozen by the sheer magnitude of the horror.
I looked at the pages I had filled, a testament to a broken night, a shattered world.
It was a tangible record of my unraveling, but also, perhaps, a step toward putting myself back together. Piece by bloody piece.
I closed the journal, placing the pen neatly beside it.
The act was automatic, a small gesture of order in a world gone mad.
I knew I couldn't stay in this gilded cage forever, merely observing, merely documenting.
Liam would demand more. The war against Volkov would demand more.
And a part of me, the resilient, stubborn part that refused to be a victim, knew I would have to give it.
But on my own terms. Or try to, at least.
Sleep felt impossible, a betrayal. How could I rest when the phantom taste of blood was on my tongue, and the image of Dmitri's vacant eyes haunted my vision?
How could I rest when Liam, the monster I loved, was out there, pulling the strings of his empire, preparing for another war, with me, his bloody rose, caught in the thorns?
I got up from the desk, my legs stiff, my foot aching.
I walked to the large window, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtains.
The city lights stretched out before me, an endless tapestry of glittering danger and promise.
Somewhere out there, Liam was awake, working, planning.
And somewhere out there, Konstantin Volkov was also planning.
I was safe, for now. Alive. But the price of that safety was my soul, stained with the brutal, unforgivable choices made in the name of my protection.
And the quiet, aching truth was, I still felt a pull, a dark, dangerous tether, to the man who had torn my world apart to keep me.
This was my new reality. A gilded cage, a bloody crown, and a love stained by an unforgivable act.
And I was writing every fucking word of it down.