CHAPTER 14
LIAM P.O.V.
The taste of her defiance, mixed with the sweat and sex that still clung to my skin hours later, was a poison and a tonic.
Rose. My fucking Rose. She was more resilient than I’d anticipated, more stubborn than any woman I’d ever encountered.
Even after the brutal claiming in my suite last night, after I’d pinned her to the wall and fucked her into submission, she’d stared at me with those burning blue-green eyes, a spark of pure, untamed rebellion still flickering in their depths.
It infuriated me. And it made my cock ache with a possessive hunger that was becoming a dangerous addiction.
She thought she was a player, uncovering my family's secrets, exposing Volkov’s hidden hand.
She was. A damn good one. But she was my player, on my board.
And her attempts to escape, her desperate flights, were not merely an inconvenience.
They were a challenge to my authority, a direct insult to my ownership.
Each foiled attempt, each time Ivan had to intercept her like a runaway stray, chipped away at the thin veneer of my control.
She made me feel... exasperated. A feeling I rarely experienced. And it only fed the fire.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, the city below a glittering tapestry of lives and lies, all under my thumb.
My empire was vast, my reach insidious, yet a single woman, my forced bride, continued to test its limits.
The attack from Petrov’s men, orchestrated by Volkov no doubt, had been dealt with.
Their bodies were already being processed, their families already feeling the ripple effects of Morozov’s wrath.
But the underlying threat, Volkov’s escalating audacity, coiled in my gut like a venomous snake.
He was striking at my foundations, subtly at first, through my father’s legacy, then overtly, through the attack.
And in doing so, he had dared to threaten what was mine. Her.
The memory of her fear when I’d found her in the panic room, quickly followed by her fiery rage, was etched into my mind.
I’d seen the terror in her eyes, seen her body tremble, yet she’d faced me, challenging, demanding answers.
It wasn’t a fragile fear, but a battle cry.
That was the crack in her armor, the vulnerability that made my beast roar to life, the possessive need to protect her consuming me.
And it was also a crack in my armor, a realization that her safety was becoming paramount, a weakness I couldn’t afford.
But her stubbornness, her inability to grasp the finality of her situation, grated on my nerves.
I needed to reinforce the lesson. She needed to understand, deep in her bones, that there was no escape, no corner of this world where I wouldn’t find her.
Not with threats. Not with explanations.
With action. With my body, branding her, breaking her, making her crave the very chains she fought against.
My gaze drifted to the closed door of her studio, the one adjacent to my office. She was likely in there, licking her wounds, plotting her next move. The thought brought a low growl to my chest. Let her plot. Let her think she had agency. It only made the inevitable surrender sweeter.
I drained the last of my whiskey, the amber liquid burning a path down my throat.
The clock on my desk ticked relentlessly, each second amplifying the hunger, the need that festered beneath my carefully constructed calm.
I had meetings, decisions to make, power moves to orchestrate.
But none of it felt as pressing as the raw, visceral need to quell the storm that was Rose Collins.
I tossed the empty glass onto the desk with a soft clink, then pushed off the desk, my strides long and silent as I moved toward the studio door. I didn’t knock. I never did. This was my home, my territory, and she was in it.
The door swung open silently, revealing the controlled chaos of her artistic sanctuary.
She was there, just as I’d suspected, bent over her easel, the damn icon she’d uncovered still propped on it.
Her hair, the color of autumn leaves, was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her pale, delicate face.
She wore a simple white shirt, stained with paint, and loose-fitting trousers.
She looked like an artist, completely engrossed, completely oblivious to the predator who had just entered her space.
My eyes swept over her, taking in the curve of her back, the way her fingers moved delicately over the canvas. She was a contradiction – a woman of art and beauty, trapped in a world of blood and violence, and yet thriving in her own defiant way. It was captivating. And maddening.
“Still playing with your paints, moya roza?” I rumbled, my voice low, making her jump, her hand instinctively reaching for a small, sharp tool on her table.
She spun around, her eyes wide, a flicker of fear, quickly masked by that familiar defiance, flashing in their depths. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, betraying her calm facade.
“Morozov,” she spat, her voice tight, a hint of steel in it. “Don’t you ever knock?”
I ignored her, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thud that echoed in the silent studio. I advanced slowly, my gaze never leaving hers, savoring the way her body tensed, the way her eyes tracked my every move.
“What? Are you planning another escape, Rose?” I drawled, my voice laced with a dangerous amusement. “Perhaps another daring foray into the ventilation shafts? I assure you, my security has been... upgraded.”
Her cheeks flushed, a furious red that made my gut clench. “You think this is a game?” she seethed, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “You think I enjoy being your prisoner? Being... handled?” The last word was spat out, raw with humiliation.
I stopped a foot from her, looming over her, my height and presence designed to overwhelm. “You are not a prisoner, Rose,” I corrected, my voice dropping, dangerous. “You are mine. My property. And you will learn to obey. Or I will break you.”
Her chin lifted stubbornly. “You can’t break me, Liam. You can hurt me. You can scare me. But you can’t break my spirit.”
A low growl tore from my chest. Her spirit. That was the problem, wasn't it? The fire that blazed in her eyes, the defiance that fueled her every move. It was what made her so maddeningly desirable, so uniquely hers. And it was what I needed to tame. Not extinguish. Tame.
“Is that so?” I rasped, my hand shooting out, not to hurt, but to grab her arm, pulling her roughly against my chest. Her body was stiff, resisting, but the subtle tremor beneath my fingers betrayed her.
“You think I haven’t seen stronger men than you beg for mercy?
You think your little spirit is immune to my touch? ”
I saw the question in her eyes, a flicker of genuine fear mixed with confusion. She didn’t understand. She saw only the brute, the captor. She didn’t see the man who was becoming dangerously obsessed, dangerously addicted to the fire she brought to his cold, dark world.
“You’re just a bully, Liam,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes fixed on mine.
A dark, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “A bully? Perhaps. But I am your bully, Rose. And you, my little historian, are going to learn what true obedience tastes like.”
I released her arm, then grabbed her around the waist, lifting her effortlessly, throwing her over my shoulder like a sack of grain. She cried out, a sharp, startled sound, her hands flailing, hitting my back.
“Liam! Put me down, you bastard!” she shrieked, her voice raw with indignation.
I ignored her protests, walking out of the studio, through the silent hallway, toward my private suite.
Her thrashing was futile, her struggles like a kitten against a beast. The rage, the defiance, the desperate fire that burned within her – it was all a challenge, a promise of a battle I was ready to win.
I kicked open the door to my suite, striding across the plush carpet, and tossed her onto the center of my massive bed. The impact made her gasp, and she scrambled back, pushing herself against the carved headboard, her eyes wide, like a cornered animal.
I stood over her, my chest heaving, my eyes devouring her. Her white shirt was rumpled, her hair disheveled, her lips slightly swollen from her protests. She looked wild, untamed, absolutely captivating.
“You want to fight me, Rose?” I growled, my voice low, dangerous. “You want to defy me? Fine. But you will do it on my terms. And you will learn to submit. You will learn to enjoy submitting.”
I reached into the dresser beside the bed, pulling out a handful of my expensive silk ties – black, charcoal, deep navy. They were soft, luxurious, harmless. But in my hands, they would become instruments of control.
Her eyes widened, fixing on the ties, then on me. “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice trembling, the defiance finally giving way to a flicker of raw fear.
“I’m teaching you a lesson, moya roza,” I rasped, my lips curving into a predatory smile. “A lesson in obedience. A lesson in pleasure.”
I lunged, pinning her wrists to the headboard, quickly securing them with two of the ties. Her skin was soft beneath the silk, a stark contrast to the unyielding wood. She struggled, her breath catching in her throat, but the ties held firm.
“Liam, no!” she cried, her voice cracking. “Please, don’t!”
I ignored her pleas, my gaze burning into hers.
Her legs were kicking, her body writhing, a desperate struggle that only fueled my possessive need.
I grabbed her ankles, pulling them apart, tying them to the footboard with two more ties.
She was spread-eagled, vulnerable, exposed.
The silk restrained her, but didn’t hurt her. Not yet.