CHAPTER 7
ROSE P.O.V.
The persistent ache in my thighs was a living thing, a dull throb that pulsed in time with the anger in my chest. Liam’s scent, a sharp, musky brand of his possessive dominance, still clung to my skin, to the sheets, to the very air of this gilded cage.
He had left hours ago, his absence a hollow echo louder than his presence, but the phantom weight of his body on mine, the memory of his brutal thrusts, lingered like a vile bruise.
My body, damn it, that traitorous vessel, still registered the ghost of pleasure beneath the violation.
It was a sickening duality, a betrayal I couldn’t reconcile.
I pushed myself upright, the silk sheets rustling like a mocking whisper.
My foot throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the more insidious pain tearing through my mind.
Every muscle screamed in protest, but I ignored it, fueled by a stubborn refusal to be reduced to mere consequence.
He wanted me broken, a weeping, compliant puppet?
He wouldn’t get it. Not entirely. My mind, a fortress of intellect and observation, remained my own. My only weapon in this convoluted hell.
The penthouse was silent, the kind of silence that pressed in, amplifying every thought, every agonizing memory.
Dmitri’s face, vacant and accusing, flashed behind my eyelids, followed by Liam’s, hard and unyielding, his eyes burning with a desperate, furious possessiveness.
Me perdoa, moya roza. The words, raw and guttural, echoed, an apology laced with a demand, a plea wrapped in brutality.
He had done it for me. He believed he was saving me. But at what cost? And from whom?
I dragged myself out of bed, the sapphire robe feeling like a heavy shroud against my skin.
My reflection in the full-length mirror was a stranger: eyes shadowed, lips still swollen, faint bruises blooming on my throat where his fingers had clamped, claiming.
I didn't try to hide them. Let them be a testament.
Let them fuel the cold fire that was steadily replacing the chaotic flames of fear and disgust.
No, I couldn’t wallow. Wallowing was surrender.
And surrender was death in this world. My historian’s mind, honed by years of deciphering ancient texts and forgotten narratives, was already clicking into overdrive.
I had to know. I had to understand the intricate, bloody tapestry Liam had dragged me into.
I limped back to the antique writing desk, my gaze locking onto the leather-bound journal.
It lay there, a silent confidante, waiting.
Liam had put it there. Another manipulation, a gilded cage for my thoughts, a designated space for my despair.
But I would use it. I would use everything. I would turn his tools against him.
The cool leather of the chair felt like an anchor. I opened the journal to my last entry, my raw scrawl from yesterday detailing the horror, the confusion, the sickening pull.
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?
The words stared back, condemning me. My stomach clenched, a mix of nausea and a desperate need for answers.
I had to unravel the tangled threads of this generational war.
Dmitri, Volkov, Liam’s father. It all wove into a sick, elaborate game, and I was caught in the middle.
But I wasn't just a captive. I was an observer.
A documentarian. And with the right knowledge, perhaps, an active player.
My gaze drifted to the small, hidden compartment in the desk.
I’d found it weeks ago, tucked away behind a false panel, a secret cache of Liam’s sensitive documents.
He’d been amused, almost proud, of my snooping.
Now, those documents felt like a lifeline, a whisper of truth in a world of lies.
Information was power. And I needed every ounce of it.
With trembling fingers that quickly steadied with resolve, I retrieved the small, ornate wooden box.
Inside, carefully folded, were several aged papers.
Maps of old territories, coded ledgers, and a collection of faded photographs.
I remembered poring over them after the last time I’d tried to escape, searching for weaknesses, for an exit.
Now, I saw them with new eyes, through the lens of Dmitri’s death and Volkov’s shadowy betrayal.
One document, in particular, called to me.
The fragment of a family tree, handwritten in Cyrillic, with names and dates scrawled in an elegant, almost artistic hand.
I’d dismissed it before, as merely ancestral records.
But now, after Liam's revelations about Volkov, about his father, about Dmitri's manipulation... it felt crucial.
I smoothed the parchment on the desk, my fingers tracing the faded ink.
Morozov... Volkov... The names intertwined, branches splitting, some ending abruptly, others flourishing.
And then I saw it again. A name, circled in red ink, partially obscured by a coffee stain: Dmitri Anatolyevich Morozov.
And next to it, a date. Not a birth date. A date of death. Years ago.
My breath hitched, a cold knot tightening in my stomach.
Liam had told me Dmitri was his brother.
And I had seen Liam kill him. So why was there a death date years ago?
Was this a different Dmitri? Or was this a lie?
A manipulation so profound it shattered the very foundation of Liam’s rage, of his entire empire?
My historian's mind clicked into overdrive, pushing aside the raw pain, focusing solely on the puzzle. There were notes in the margins, abbreviations that seemed like codes, cross-references to other documents I hadn’t seen.
This wasn't just a family tree. It was a goddamn record of a bloodline, a legacy, and perhaps, a hidden narrative.
A narrative Volkov had been writing for decades.
I pulled the journal closer, uncapping the silver pen.
My hands still shook with the lingering effects of Liam’s raw passion, but a fierce determination was building within me, a cold fire replacing the burning ache of my body’s betrayal.
I began to write again, not about my feelings, but about the facts.
About the cold, hard data I was unearthing.
Journal Entry: Day Unknown, Aftermath. Purpose: Unravel the lie.
I copied the fragment of the family tree, noting every detail, every faded mark.
If this Dmitri was "dead" years ago, who was the man Liam had just killed?
A usurper? A double? Or had Liam been manipulated, just as Dmitri had been?
The thought sent a chill down my spine. Could Liam, the ruthless Pakhan, be a pawn in Volkov's game, too? It seemed impossible. Liam was control personified, a force of nature. But the depth of Volkov's manipulation, as Liam himself had described, was terrifying. He’d confessed to being caught in a long game, centuries in the making, but he still believed his actions were his own. What if they weren’t?
I started making connections, cross-referencing names on the family tree with names I’d overheard from Liam’s men, from the whispers in the compound.
Vasily, Sergei, Anatoly—they were anchors in Liam’s world, loyal.
But Volkov’s name was peppered throughout old files, connected to alliances, rivalries, and old debts.
It was a spiderweb, intricate and deadly, and Konstantin Volkov was undeniably at its center.
He’s been playing us all for fools. My father.
Dmitri. Me. Liam’s words echoed in my mind from our last twisted exchange.
He believed Volkov had manipulated his father.
And if this document was correct, if Dmitri was supposed to be dead years ago, then Liam’s entire world was built on a lie.
His actions, his revenge, his brutal protection of me—all based on a fabricated enemy.
The implications were staggering. If the Dmitri Liam killed was a fabricated identity, a placeholder, then the real Dmitri – or at least, the one recorded here – had died under suspicious circumstances.
And if Volkov was behind it... then the web of betrayal stretched deeper than Liam could fathom.
He was so consumed by his rage, his need for vengeance, his relentless pursuit of Oleg Volkov to get to Konstantin.
But if he was hunting ghosts, following a script written by his enemy, then he was more vulnerable than he could ever comprehend. And by extension, so was I.
A strange, twisted curiosity took hold of me, overriding the nausea, the fear, the disgust. This was my world now.
This brutal, convoluted history. And I, the art historian, was uniquely equipped to decipher its secrets.
I saw patterns, recognized symbols, read between the lines of human deceit.
I was good at this. And in this moment, that knowledge felt like a flicker of power, a small triumph in a life stripped bare.
I searched through the other documents. Old photographs, yellowed with age, showed stern-faced men in dark suits, their eyes hard, their expressions unyielding.
One photo, in particular, caught my eye.
A younger Liam, barely a man, standing next to an older, imposing figure.
His father, no doubt. And in the background, partially obscured, a man with a striking resemblance to the Dmitri Liam had just killed.
But his face was different somehow, softer, less haunted.
And his posture – less defiant, less burdened by the weight of a twisted destiny.
Could this be the "real" Dmitri? Before whatever had happened? Before Volkov’s manipulations warped him into the monster Liam believed him to be?
The pieces were starting to form a terrifying picture.
A long con, generations in the making, designed to pit brother against brother, family against family, all for the ultimate prize of the Morozov empire.
My breath hitched again as a sudden, overwhelming wave of memory crashed over me.
Liam, above me, his voice a low growl, "Me perdoa, moya roza." Forgive me, my rose. He’d done it for me. He believed he was saving me from his brother. But what if he was saving me from a manipulated version of his brother? What if Dmitri was as much a victim as a villain? The thought was sickening. It didn’t absolve Liam, not for the brutality of his act, not for the way he’d taken me, but it painted a picture of a far more insidious enemy.
And my body, damn it, that traitorous thing, still remembered his touch.
The force of his penetration, the raw hunger in his eyes, the heavy scent of him filling my lungs.
Even as my mind recoiled in horror, a familiar heat sparked low in my belly, a deep, insistent throb that always followed his presence, his touch.
The disgust, the rage, the injustice—it should extinguish any desire.
But it didn't. It twisted it, made it darker, more forbidden, more potent.
It was a vile, undeniable truth: my body craved the monster, even as my soul fought against him.
A frustrated moan escaped my lips, a sound of desperation and burgeoning heat.
My fingers clenched around the pen, knuckles white.
The sensation was disgusting, a violation of my own sense of self, a profound internal discord.
He used my body as an instrument of his power, a landscape he claimed, even when my mind screamed resistance.
My thighs still ached, a dull, physical manifestation of his claim, and perversely, still held the ghost of pleasure, a deep, invasive satisfaction I hated.
I closed my eyes, pressing my palms against them, trying to push away the image of his fierce gaze, the feel of his rough skin against mine, the shuddering climax he’d ripped from me.
The scent of him, of soap and blood and raw masculinity, still permeated the room, a phantom embrace that both suffocated and aroused.
No. Not now. I couldn't afford to be consumed by that particular brand of madness.
I needed clarity. I needed answers. My fight for self-preservation demanded it.
I forced my eyes open, refocusing on the documents.
There was another paper, a letter, tucked into the back of the box.
It was written in Russian, in a different hand, more florid, older.
I didn't speak Russian fluently, but I recognized some key phrases, gleaned from my time with Liam, from overheard conversations.
Phrases he used. Phrases his men whispered.
...the weakness of the Morozov line... the true heir... will rise from the ashes...
And then, a signature: K. Volkov.
Konstantin. The puppeteer. The mastermind.
He had been planning this for decades. Manipulating families, playing a long, deadly game.
Dmitri had been just a piece. Liam’s father, another.
And Liam, the fierce Pakhan, was unknowingly caught in a legacy of lies that pre-dated his birth.
He was waging a war that wasn’t entirely his own.
He was a weapon, forged and wielded by another.
A cold, hard resolve settled in my chest, solidifying my purpose.
If Liam was walking into a war based on a manipulated truth, then he was not only vulnerable, he was blind.
And if he was blind, so was I. He had saved my life with an unforgivable act, a brutal choice born of a twisted truth.
Now, it was up to me to find the real truth.
Not for him, not entirely. But for myself.
To reclaim some agency, some sense of purpose in this bloody, gilded cage.
To ensure I wasn't just a pawn in Volkov's game, or Liam's.
The sun was higher now, casting long shadows across the room.
The sterile hum of the penthouse’s ventilation system was the only sound, a stark contrast to the storm raging within me.
I reached for another blank page in the journal, my fingers steady this time.
The weight of the pen felt different, no longer a burden, but a tool. A weapon.
The true cost of protection is the truth obscured. I wrote, the words stark against the white page. And the truth, once discovered, can be a more dangerous weapon than any bullet.
Liam was out there, reorganizing his empire, fueled by a rage I now suspected was based on a fundamental lie.
He would come back. He would demand my body, my compliance, my fractured acceptance.
He would try to bridge the chasm with another brutal claim.
But when he did, I would not be the same broken woman he’d left behind.
I would be armed. Not with a gun, but with knowledge.
And that, in their savage world, was a power he hadn't accounted for.
A power that might finally be enough to shatter his carefully constructed reality, and perhaps, free us both.