CHAPTER 7 #2
“You’re mine, Rose,” I heard my own voice, raw and guttural, echo in the cavern of my mind. “Mine. Every inch of you. Every defiant breath. Every sweet, secret thought.”
My fingers closed around myself, a rough, insistent grip. The friction was immediate, a desperate release that mirrored the rage and the desperate yearning in my soul. My eyes closed, and her image, vivid and brutal, filled my mind.
I saw her, not as the broken prisoner, but as the fiery, untamed woman who had dared to challenge me.
Rose, spread beneath me on the cold, hard conference table, her skirt hiked up, her legs wrapped around my waist, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
Her head thrown back, a raw moan tearing from her throat as I plunged into her, again and again, claiming her, marking her.
Her eyes, wide and dazed, watching me with a mixture of fear and desperate pleasure as I drove into her, knotting my fingers in her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Say my name, moya roza,” I heard my own voice, rough and possessive, echo in the cavern of my mind, a demand, a command. “Say it for me, little fucking whore.”
And she did. Her voice, choked and breathless, a desperate plea and a willing surrender. “Liam! Oh, God, Liam!”
My hips bucked against my hand, the memories fueling the fire, making me push harder, faster.
The image of her against the wall, her legs wrapped around me, her nails digging into my ass as I slammed into her, her whimpers echoing in the penthouse.
Her body, arching, desperate, taking all of me.
The way her lips parted, swollen and red, from my kisses.
The sharp slap of my hand against her ass, the dark bruising bloom beneath her skin, a mark of my ownership, a cruel reminder of who she belonged to.
My breath hitched, a guttural sound torn from my throat.
I pictured her now, out there, on the streets, perhaps using that same fire, that same seductive defiance, that same enticing body, to survive.
The thought was a mixture of pride and a terrifying, jealous rage that made my blood boil.
No one else would taste her. No one else would touch her.
She was mine. And if they dared... I would flay them alive.
My orgasm was a violent, furious release, a promise of retribution and possession. My body convulsed, a deep, shuddering climax, my seed spurting hot against my hand, against the cold porcelain sink, a stark contrast of heat and cold, fury and relief.
“Mine,” I rasped, the word a desperate plea, a furious promise that clawed its way from my gut. “You are mine, Rose. And I’m coming for you. All of you. You hear me, Volkov? You hear me, you old bastard? You touched what was mine. And you will fucking burn.”
My body trembled, spent, but my mind was clearer now, sharpened by the raw, brutal release.
This wasn’t just about revenge for the ambush, for the slight to my empire.
It was about reclaiming her. Her body, her defiance, her stubborn spirit.
Every ounce of her. And I would tear through hell itself to get her back.
Every scream she uttered, every tear she shed, every bruise they put on her skin would be paid for in blood.
Volkov would learn. They would all learn.
The Morozovs didn’t forget. And they didn’t forgive.
I wiped myself clean, my movements economical, almost clinical, but the fire still burned in my veins, a raging inferno.
The camisole, still smelling faintly of her, was now a talisman of my renewed quest, folded and tucked into my pocket, a constant reminder.
I pulled my clothes back on, the heavy fabric feeling like armor, each button, each zip, a preparation for war.
I walked back to the desk, grabbing the secure sat-phone. Vasily would be waiting for the next order.
“Vasily,” I barked into the phone, my voice low, dangerous, "Round up every available man. Every resource. We’re moving.
No more shadows. No more whispers. We’re going to light up this city until we find her.
Inform the heads of the other territories, the ones still loyal to Morozov.
Tell them I’m calling in every single favor, every single debt.
Tell them to turn over every fucking rock.
If anyone even breathes a word of seeing her, they report it directly to me.
If they hide her, if they touch her, if they even think about her without my permission, their entire fucking bloodline will be extinguished. ”
There was a brief pause on the other end, a moment of silence heavy with the implications of my command, with the weight of absolute, unbridled power. Then, Vasily’s voice, tight with understanding, laced with a tremor of awe. “Understood, Pakhan. The hunt begins.”
“No,” I corrected him, my eyes burning, sweeping over the map of the city, imagining Rose lost within its dangerous sprawl, defiant and alone. “The war begins. And I’m leading the fucking charge. Volkov thinks he can touch what’s mine? He will learn the true meaning of a Morozov’s wrath.”
I slammed the phone down, a grim smile twisting my lips, a predator sharpening its fangs.
Rose was out there. She was fighting. And now, so was I.
Unchained, relentless. And God help anyone who stood between a Morozov and what was his.
The city would run red with blood. Volkov would regret the day he ever thought he could break what was mine.
I would find her. And when I did, I would remind her, in every brutal, possessive way, that she belonged to me.
And only me. The rules of engagement had just shifted.