CHAPTER 11
LIAM P.O.V.
The taste of her was still on my tongue, a potent mix of fear, relief, and the dark, musky tang of spent desire.
Rose. Mine. The word echoed in the confined space of the armored SUV, a primal chant in the aftermath of the docks’ bloodbath.
Vasily drove with his usual silent efficiency, the hum of the engine a low thrum beneath the frantic hammering of my heart.
She was draped across me, her smaller frame an exquisite weight in my arms, her breathing still ragged against my neck.
I buried my face in her hair, inhaling her scent – sweat, salt, the faint sweetness of her skin.
The smell of victory. And the lingering stench of the fear I’d almost drowned in.
My hand, still tight on her hip, left a stinging imprint on her bruised skin.
I had taken her hard, fast, and without preamble in the back of the car, a brutal act of reclamation.
Part of it had been relief, a guttural roar of triumph that she was alive, in my arms. Part of it had been pure, unadulterated rage – rage at Volkov, at his men, at the world for daring to touch what was mine.
And part of it, the darkest, most possessive part, had been to remind her, to brand her anew, that no matter where she went, no matter what horrors she endured, she was mine. My property. My woman. My everything.
She shifted, a soft whimper escaping her lips, and I tightened my hold, a low growl rumbling in my chest. Her body was still trembling, a delicate instrument that had been played too roughly, exposed to too much.
Bruises bloomed across her skin, testament to Volkov’s cruelty.
My fingers brushed over a dark mark on her shoulder, and the red haze threatened to descend again.
I had left Volkov’s docks a burning inferno, but it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough until he choked on his own blood.
“Liam,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, muffled against my chest. She pushed herself up slightly, enough to meet my gaze. Her blue-green eyes, usually so bright and defiant, were clouded with exhaustion, pain, and a raw, trembling anger that cut through my possessive fog. “What... what was that?”
My jaw clenched. I knew what she meant. Not the battle.
Not the rescue. But the brutal act of claiming her moments after I’d found her.
The immediate penetration, the lack of preamble, the sheer force of it.
My mouth thinned into a hard line. “A reminder,” I growled, my voice rough, still thick with the residue of my own spent fury.
“A reminder of who you belong to. A reminder that no one else gets to touch you.”
Her eyes flashed, a spark of that fire I craved igniting in their depths.
“A reminder?” she scoffed, the word laced with a bitter disbelief.
“Or a punishment? For daring to escape. For daring to survive without you.” She pulled back a fraction, her hands pushing against my chest, a weak but determined resistance.
“Did it make you feel powerful, Liam? Taking me like that, when I was broken and terrified, when I thought I was free?”
The words hit me like a physical blow, cutting through the haze of satisfaction.
Punishment? Perhaps. But not for escaping.
For making me fear. For making me feel that gut-wrenching terror that had twisted my insides into knots for three goddamn days.
The fear that Volkov had broken her. That he had taken her in ways I couldn’t bear to contemplate.
“You think this was about punishment?” I snarled, pulling her closer again, my grip possessive.
“You think I enjoyed seeing you battered, bruised, and bleeding? You think I enjoyed thinking of you in that bastard’s clutches?
Every fucking minute you were gone, Rose, was a lifetime of pure, unadulterated hell.
And every man who even looked at you with hunger in their eyes will pay for it. You were my fucking priority. Always.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and a flicker of something shifted in her eyes – understanding, perhaps, but also a deeper, more chilling realization.
“And so you mark me,” she said, her voice softer, but no less accusing.
“Like a piece of property. Like an animal you’ve hunted and finally dragged back to your lair.
” Her fingers came up, touching the bruising marks on her own neck, the ones I’d left.
“Is that what I am to you, Liam? A trophy? A possession?”
My gaze hardened, meeting hers, challenging her.
“You are mine,” I stated, the words absolute, leaving no room for argument.
“More than a trophy. More than a possession. You are part of me now, Rose. And the thought of anyone else touching you, even thinking about you, ignites a darkness in me that even I struggle to control.” I ran a thumb along her jawline, my touch possessive, almost reverent, belying the harshness of my words.
“You defied a king, Rose. You escaped a cage I didn’t think you had the strength to crawl out of.
And then you walked right back into the center of a goddamn war zone. What did you expect?”
“I expected a choice,” she countered, her chin lifting defiantly, even with the exhaustion etched on her face. “I expected a man who respected my agency, not just my body. I expected... you to be glad I was alive, not just furious I wasn’t where you could control me.”
The accusation stung, a bitter truth hidden in her words.
I was glad she was alive. More than glad.
It was a searing relief that threatened to buckle my knees, a primal satisfaction that she was back in my orbit.
But the fury, the need for control, the obsessive desire to brand her and keep her safe under my thumb – that was just as real. And she saw it. She saw all of it.
The SUV finally slowed, turning off the main road, navigating a labyrinth of narrow, unlit alleys.
This was one of the safe houses, deep in an industrial district, discreet and heavily fortified.
Vasily pulled into an enclosed loading dock, the heavy steel door rumbling shut behind us with a solid thud, severing us from the outside world.
Liam didn’t move. He held her close, his eyes still locked with hers, the raw emotion in the car thick enough to choke on.
He was right. She was mine. But something had fundamentally shifted.
She was no longer just the naive art historian I’d dragged into my world.
She had survived. She had fought. She had seen the true face of my darkness, and she had seen her own.
He finally exhaled, a long, rough sound, and carefully, almost gently, lifted her into his arms. She winced, a soft gasp escaping her lips, and his gaze flicked to her injured foot, his jaw tightening further. He hated seeing her hurt. Hated that Volkov’s men had dared to lay a hand on her.
He carried her out of the SUV, through a hidden door, and into the stark, concrete interior of the safe house.
It was utilitarian, built for survival, not comfort.
Hard lines, minimal furniture, cameras in every corner.
My men, already stationed there, were silent, their faces impassive as I strode past them, Rose in my arms. They knew better than to stare. Knew better than to comment.
I took her directly to the largest bedroom, a surprisingly spartan space with a heavy, king-sized bed dominating the room.
I laid her down gently, carefully, on the fresh, dark sheets.
Her dress, what was left of it, clung to her torn and dirty.
Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, falling around her bruised face.
She looked up at me, those piercing blue-green eyes still burning with an unshakeable resolve.
“I saw it, Liam,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong.
“The newspaper. About the Morozov hit. You were hurt. Badly.” She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the faint, still visible scar above my left temple – the one Ivan had stitched up.
“You almost died. And I... I was alone. In that fucking hole. Being interrogated. And then I ran. I escaped. And I found you.”
A muscle twitched in my jaw. She had every right to be furious. Every right to be scared. Every right to lash out. I had put her in this world. I had made her mine. And then I had almost been taken from her. The thought was a bitter pill.
“I was hurt,” I admitted, the words grating, a confession of vulnerability I rarely allowed myself.
“But not dead. I don’t die easily, Rose.
You should know that by now.” I sat on the edge of the bed, my weight making the mattress dip, pulling her closer to me, my hand resting on her uninjured leg.
“Volkov tried. He sent his best. But he failed. He underestimated me. And he underestimated you.”
She flinched at my touch, though she didn’t pull away. Her gaze was still fixed on me, searching, demanding answers beyond the superficial. “You killed them, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “The men who ambushed you. The men who took me.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Every last one of them,” I confirmed, my voice flat, devoid of remorse.
“And their families will pay. Their associates will pay. Volkov will pay. For every bruise on your skin, Rose. For every moment of fear you endured. For every fucking second you were not in my sight, safe. There will be a reckoning.”
She closed her eyes, a shiver running through her. “And that’s your world, isn’t it?” she said, her voice laced with a bitter understanding. “An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. Endless violence. And I’m just... caught in the middle. A pawn. A bargaining chip. Until I’m not useful anymore.”