CHAPTER 18
LIAM P.O.V.
The taste of good bourbon usually soothed the gnawing edge of my anxiety, a familiar burn that settled deep in my gut.
Tonight, it felt like fire, stoking the rage already simmering beneath my skin.
Nikolai’s report had just landed on my desk, a neatly typed summary of Rose’s “outing” to the Voronov Gallery.
And every word was a goddamn match igniting a powder keg.
I stared at the black and white text, but all I could see was Rose.
Rose, leaning close to Nikolai. Rose, her lips brushing his ear, her body swaying against his.
The image burned, a red-hot brand across my vision, twisting my guts into knots of pure, unadulterated fury.
My woman. My fucking captive. Daring to play games, daring to flirt, daring to touch one of my men.
Nikolai, that quiet, efficient son of a bitch, had followed my orders to the letter.
He’d reported everything. The subtle seduction, the insinuations, the direct questions.
And those questions... those were what truly ripped through my carefully constructed composure.
Crescent moon cipher. Waterfront properties. Valentin’s plans with Volkov.
The words hammered in my skull, a brutal rhythm.
My hand clenched, crushing the crystal glass in my grip.
Shards bit into my palm, but I barely registered the pain.
Valentin. My consigliere. My father’s right hand, then mine.
A man who had seen me grow from a scared boy into the head of the Morozov Bratva.
A man I trusted with my fucking life, with the lives of my men, with the very foundation of my empire.
It was an impossibility. A sick, twisted joke.
But the anger swirling inside me wasn't just about betrayal. It was about her. Rose. My little historian. My unwilling bride. She had poked and prodded, digging into my secrets, defying my every command, pushing my boundaries with a reckless abandon that was both infuriating and, goddamn it, utterly intoxicating. I’d told her not to try anything foolish.
I’d warned her. And she had, in her own stubborn, infuriating way, gone straight to the fucking heart of the beast.
Nikolai’s report didn’t just detail her flirtation; it detailed her intelligence.
The way she had used her academic knowledge, her understanding of history and ciphers, to extract information, to test his loyalty.
He hadn’t given her explicit confirmation, of course.
Nikolai was too disciplined for that. But his abrupt withdrawal, his sudden shift from lust to suspicion – that was a confirmation in itself.
Rose had seen it. And I, reading between the lines of his carefully worded report, saw it now too.
Valentin. It couldn't be. The thought was a poison, seeping into every corner of my mind, threatening to corrode the very bedrock of my trust. If Valentin, my most loyal and oldest advisor, was working with Volkov, then my empire wasn't just facing a threat; it was already bleeding out from the inside.
And Rose. The woman I had dragged into this world, the woman I had brutalized and claimed as mine, the woman whose defiant spirit I had sworn to break.
She was the one who had stumbled upon this cancerous truth.
She had put herself in danger, exposing herself to one of my most dangerous men, risking everything to dig into secrets that were not hers to uncover.
My anger flared, hot and volatile. She was mine.
My property. My responsibility. And she had dared to endanger herself. She had dared to play with fire.
I needed to see her. I needed to see the truth in her eyes. And I needed to make her understand, once and for all, that there were limits to her defiance. Limits to her curiosity. Limits to the games she could play.
I pushed away from the desk, my chair scraping loudly against the polished marble floor.
The jagged glass shards in my hand dug deeper, a dull throb now blooming into a sharp, insistent sting.
I ignored it. Pain was a familiar companion.
The betrayal of a trusted man, the reckless defiance of the woman who had somehow gotten under my skin – those were the wounds that cut deepest.
My footsteps echoed hollowly in the expansive penthouse as I stalked towards her studio.
The silence was unnerving, broken only by the frantic beat of my own heart, a drum of impending violence.
I knew where she would be. Lost in her art, in her books, in her carefully constructed world of historical facts and logical deductions.
A world so utterly different from mine, and yet, she was now firmly embedded in its darkest corners.
The studio door was ajar, a sliver of soft light spilling into the hallway. The scent of turpentine and old paper, usually a calming presence, now felt like a taunt. I pushed the door open, the sound barely audible over the rush of blood in my ears.
She was there, just as I expected. Hunched over a large table, surrounded by scattered papers, open books, and what looked like a collection of old documents.
Her red-brown hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her delicate face.
She was wearing one of her oversized sweaters, the soft fabric doing little to hide the subtle curves of her body.
My eyes, hard and possessive, traced the line of her back, the curve of her ass. Mine. Every goddamn inch of her.
“What the fuck are you doing, Rose?” My voice was a low growl, rough with barely contained fury.
She flinched, her shoulders tightening, and slowly turned.
Her blue-green eyes, usually so defiant, were wide with a sudden, dawning fear.
She knew. She understood the unspoken threat in my tone, the dangerous glint in my eyes.
Her gaze flickered to my bloodied hand, then back to my face, a silent question.
“Liam,” she breathed, her voice a little shaky, a tremor running through her. She pushed herself up from the table, her hands flat against the worn wood, a defensive posture. “I was... I was working.”
“Working?” I snarled, taking a step closer, my eyes never leaving hers. “Working on what, moya roza? How to fuck one of my men? How to tear down my empire from the inside?”
Her cheeks flushed, a flush of anger, not shame. “I wasn’t –”
“Don’t you dare lie to me,” I cut her off, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, each word a lash.
I was right in front of her now, towering over her, my shadow engulfing her smaller frame.
The scent of her – vanilla and something uniquely hers, something fresh and clean – filled my nostrils, a potent counterpoint to my rage.
“Nikolai’s report is on my desk. Every word.
Every fucking subtle provocation. Every touch.
You think I’m a fool, Rose? You think I don’t know when my woman is trying to play games with my men? ”
Her chin lifted, a flicker of that stubborn defiance returning. “I was investigating,” she said, her voice stronger now, though still a little breathy. “I was trying to find answers. For us.”
“Answers? For us?” I scoffed, the sound harsh, brutal.
“You think risking your neck, seducing my men, is the way to find answers? You think you can waltz into my world, poke at my oldest loyalties, and expect no consequences?” My hand shot out, grabbing her arm, my fingers digging into the soft flesh.
I pulled her towards me, hard, until her body slammed against mine.
Her breath hitched. “You are mine, Rose. And you will learn to obey.”
Her eyes flashed, a storm of defiance and fear. “I found something, Liam! Something important. Something that links my family to yours, to Volkov. To a betrayal you wouldn’t believe.”
“You found something?” I mocked, my face inches from hers.
“Or did you just get yourself into more trouble, trying to prove how clever you are?” My gaze dropped to her lips, swollen and red, a constant reminder of my own brutal claims. The memories of her gasps, her cries, her reluctant submission, flooded my mind, mixing with the current surge of possessive rage.
I wanted to silence her, to claim her again, to brand her so deeply that she would never again dare to look at another man, let alone attempt to extract information from him.
“Valentin,” she whispered, her eyes wide, her voice barely audible. “He’s involved. With the crescent moon cipher. With Volkov. He’s planning something, Liam. Something against you.”
The name hit me like a physical blow, colder than any shard of glass.
My grip on her arm tightened, my fingers pressing against bone.
“You’re lying,” I ground out, but the certainty in her voice, the terror in her eyes, resonated with Nikolai’s cryptic report.
Valentin. It couldn't be. But the pieces...
the pieces were falling into place, painting a horrifying picture.
“I’m not,” she insisted, her voice breaking. “My father’s journals. The archives. The old cipher, used in new transactions. Waterfront properties, diversion of resources. It’s all there, Liam. He’s been working against you for months, maybe years.”
My mind reeled, a storm of disbelief and cold, hard logic.
Valentin. The quiet man. The loyal shadow.
It was an impossibility. But if Rose, my infuriating, intelligent captive, had put this together, had found proof...
then the foundations of my world were truly crumbling.
My fury, already simmering, exploded. Not just at Valentin, but at Rose, for forcing me to see it, for daring to expose such a cancerous truth.
For placing herself in the crosshairs of this ancient, bloody game.