CHAPTER 12
ROSE P.O.V.
The raw concrete walls of the safe house felt like another kind of cage, albeit one Liam had chosen for me.
Or for us. The heavy, king-sized bed, pristine and dark, seemed to mock the chaos that still throbbed in my ankle and echoed in my mind.
Liam’s words, heavy with the weight of his brutal past, still hung in the air: “I am what I am... A monster made by other monsters.” And then, the paradox, “It’s what keeps us alive.
It’s what keeps you safe. Even from me.”
I watched him as he moved, his silhouette stark against the dim, utilitarian lighting of the room.
He was pacing, a caged predator, the tension in his broad shoulders almost palpable.
His confession, a rare crack in his iron fa?ade, had been unsettling.
It didn’t excuse his brutality, not entirely, but it painted a picture of a man forged in fire and blood, a man who knew no other way.
The anger that had blazed so fiercely in me after our reunion in the car, after his brutal claiming, was still a hot coal, but it was now banked by a strange, aching pity.
Pity for the boy who hid in a linen closet, listening to his family die.
Pity for the man who believed he had to become a monster to survive.
My injured foot throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that anchored me to the present.
Every movement sent a jolt of pain, a stark reminder of Volkov’s damp, cold prison, of my desperate flight, of the war that raged around us.
My dress, what was left of it, felt like a second skin of filth and dried blood.
My hair was a tangled mess, my skin grimy.
I was a survivor, yes, but a broken, dirty one.
Liam stopped pacing, his gaze snapping to mine. His steel-gray eyes were intense, searching, perhaps regretting the vulnerability he’d shown. He never lingered in softness. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford, a weakness his world would exploit.
“Get cleaned up, Rose,” he commanded, his voice rough, devoid of the earlier tremor.
The brief moment of shared vulnerability was over, replaced by his usual authoritative tone.
“Vasily will bring fresh clothes. Food.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Your foot. Ivan will look at it later.”
I pushed myself up, wincing, leaning against the headboard. “And then what, Liam?” I challenged, my voice still hoarse but laced with defiance. “Back to my gilded cage? To watch you tear the city apart for me?”
He stalked towards the bed, his presence filling the space, making the air crackle.
“You think I enjoy this, moya roza?” he growled, his hand slamming down on the mattress beside my hip, making me jump.
“You think I enjoy the chaos? The bloodshed? This is a war, Rose. A war Volkov started when he dared to lay a hand on you.” His eyes burned, a possessive fire that both terrified and thrilled me.
“And you, my stubborn little historian, are now an integral part of it.”
“Integral part?” I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “I’m a hostage. A prize. A motivation for your vengeance.”
“You’re more than that,” he countered, his voice low, dangerous.
He leaned closer, his scent—gunpowder, leather, and something uniquely Liam, primal and dark—filling my senses.
“You defied them. You survived. You found your way back to me. And you hold information. Information that can break Volkov, information you gathered, piece by piece, while you were in his clutches.” His gaze swept over my face, lingering on my eyes.
“You have a mind, Rose. A sharp, analytical mind. Don’t tell me you haven’t been piecing things together. ”
He was right. Even in my terror, my historian’s brain couldn’t help but observe, to analyze. The guards’ shifts. The layout of the prison. The names whispered, the subtle clues I’d picked up from Katerina, from the very air of the underworld. I’d been gathering fragments, instinctively.
“So you want me to be your... strategist?” I asked, a mocking twist to my lips. “Your intel analyst? Is that my new role in the Morozov empire?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips, a flash of something akin to dark amusement.
“You will be what is useful, Rose,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.
“And right now, your mind is a weapon I intend to wield.” He paused, his eyes flicking to my torn dress, then back to my face.
“But first, you bathe. You eat. And you rest. We have much to discuss, and I require you sharp, not half-dead.”
He turned, the dismissal clear in his posture, and walked towards the door.
But before he could open it, Vasily appeared, holding a neat stack of clean clothes—soft cotton, a pair of sweatpants, a loose shirt—and a tray laden with food that smelled heavenly.
He nodded respectfully to Liam, his gaze carefully avoiding mine.
“Ivan is waiting, Pakhan,” Vasily said. “For Rose’s foot.”
Liam nodded, his eyes still on me, a possessive warning in their depths. “See to it,” he commanded, and then he was gone, the heavy steel door thudding shut behind him.
The silence that followed was oppressive. I dragged myself off the bed, wincing as my foot touched the floor. The clothes were simple, functional. Not the luxurious silks and designer dresses of my gilded cage, but the practical attire of a warzone. A symbol, perhaps, of my new reality.
The bathroom was sparse, modern, and thankfully, clean.
I shed the torn, filthy remnants of my old life, letting the dress fall to the tiled floor like a discarded skin.
The bruises stood out starkly against my pale skin—purple, yellow, angry red marks on my arms, my shoulder, my neck, the places Liam had gripped me, claimed me, and Volkov’s men had interrogated me.
I ran a hand over the marks Liam had left, a strange mix of resentment and an almost perverse pleasure twisting in my gut.
He had branded me, yes. But he had also saved me.
The hot water of the shower was a balm, washing away the grime, the sweat, the residue of fear and violence.
I scrubbed my skin until it was red and tingling, trying to wash away the feeling of violation, the lingering chill of Volkov’s hands, the memory of his insidious words.
But some stains, I knew, went deeper than skin.
After, wrapped in a thick, fluffy towel, I felt marginally human again. I dressed quickly, the soft cotton a welcome comfort against my tender skin. The food was simple—broth, bread, some fruit—but I devoured it, my hunger a gnawing beast finally appeased.
Ivan, a burly man with kind, tired eyes and surprisingly gentle hands, examined my foot.
He spoke little, his fingers deft as he cleaned a deep gash, applied a strong-smelling salve, and wrapped it tightly with bandages.
“Rest it, Rose,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.
“No running for a while. Not if you want to walk properly again.” He gave me a knowing look.
“Easier said than done, I know.” He left, and I was alone again.
Alone, but not for long. Liam returned, a stack of folders in his hand, a map rolled under his arm. He didn’t enter fully, just stood in the doorway, observing me as I finished my last piece of bread. His eyes were unreadable, but the possessive edge was still there, always there.
“Finished with your performance, historian?” he asked, a hint of his dark amusement returning.
I glared at him, but then a strange curiosity sparked in me. This was it. The shift. The moment where my intellect, not just my body, became a tool. And in this brutal world, a tool was power.
“What do you want to show me, Morozov?” I asked, meeting his gaze directly.
He stepped fully into the room, tossing the folders and the map onto a utilitarian metal table. The map unfurled, revealing a detailed layout of the city, marked with red and black circles, lines, and crosses. His empire. Volkov’s territory. Our battlefield.
“This,” he said, gesturing to the map, his voice devoid of emotion, “is the current state of play. Volkov is crippled, but not broken. His influence runs deeper than I anticipated. The information you brought back... the whispers you heard in his cage, the contacts you made... they are crucial.” He looked at me, his eyes sharp.
“Tell me everything. Every detail. Every name. Every scrap of intel, no matter how insignificant you think it is.”
I limped over to the table, ignoring the pain in my foot, my historian’s curiosity overriding my resentment. This was familiar territory, in a twisted way. Piecing together fragments, deciphering codes, understanding patterns. It was what I did. But this time, the stakes were life and death.
“Alright,” I said, her eyes scanning the map, the folders. “Let’s start with what I know about Volkov’s prison setup. The guard rotations. The power dip. It wasn’t an accident. Someone helped me.”
Liam’s jaw tightened. “The plant. I know. He’s gone, vanished. And the idiot who watched you escape... he’s been dealt with.” The casual brutality in his voice made a shiver run down my spine, but I pressed on.
“There was an older woman,” I continued, pointing to a rough location on the map, remembering the general area.
“A fellow prisoner. She spoke in riddles, but she mentioned a ‘Serpent’s Tongue’ and a ‘Spider’s Web.
’ I think she meant a network of informants, not just Volkov’s direct men.
And she knew about the docks, about the shipment. How did she know?”