CHAPTER 18
ROSE P.O.V.
The taste of his blood was still a phantom on my tongue, mingling with the metallic tang of fear and the lingering ghost of his cum.
Dawn was a sickly smear of bruised purple and grey beyond the grimy window of the cabin, promising nothing but more violence.
Liam stood before me, a dark silhouette against the meager light, his movements stiff, his jaw clenched against the pain from his wound.
Vasily had found some heavier bandages, wrapping his side tight, but the gash was deep, a dark maw hidden beneath the layers of sterile gauze and rough cloth.
He was a beast, unyielding, but I’d seen the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the brief, agonizing moment when he’d buckled, when he’d chosen me over logic.
“You’re still bleeding,” I stated, my voice flat, devoid of emotion, though my stomach churned. He was pulling on a dark, reinforced tactical vest, his muscles rippling beneath the fabric, making the wound stretch. He grunted, acknowledging but not responding. Typical.
“It’ll hold,” he rasped, his eyes, steel-gray and merciless, fixed on the map laid out on the dusty table. His finger traced a winding, almost invisible line, the ventilation shaft. My fucking shaft. The one I’d unearthed from dusty blueprints, leading into Volkov’s hellhole.
Vasily stood by the door, a silent, imposing sentinel.
Sergei, along with three other men, equally grim-faced and heavily armed, waited just outside.
The air was thick with unspoken tension, the scent of stale cabin, sweat, and cheap coffee.
This wasn't some movie where the hero heals with a good night's rest. This was raw, brutal reality.
Liam was hurt. And he was dragging me into a fucking tunnel to face a monster.
“Just like old times, moya roza,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, his gaze sweeping over me.
I was dressed in dark, functional gear Vasily had scrounged: heavy tactical pants, a thick, form-fitting top, and a combat vest that felt alien and restricting.
My hair was tied back tightly, a practical knot at the nape of my neck.
No more delicate robes. No more art historian. I was a goddamn soldier. His soldier.
“Old times involved less bleeding and fewer rats,” I retorted, my hands instinctively going to the sidearm Vasily had given me.
It felt cold and heavy, a deadly extension of my trembling hand.
I’d practiced with it, endlessly, in the penthouse firing range, but a controlled environment was a world away from the actual battlefield.
“The best kind of rats,” he corrected, his lips curving into a humorless smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The ones that lead to the biggest treasures. Or the biggest traps.” His gaze drilled into mine, a challenge and a promise. “Are you ready?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “As I’ll ever be, Morozov.”
He nodded, then turned to Vasily. “Secure the perimeter. No one gets near this cabin. If we’re not back in six hours, initiate phase three. Burn it all down.”
Vasily’s face was grim. “Yes, Pakhan.”
Liam didn’t wait. He stalked out, his men falling in behind him like shadows. I took a deep breath, clutching the pistol, and followed.
The entrance to the ventilation shaft was precisely where Sergei’s drone had found it: hidden beneath a tangle of thorny bushes and decaying leaves, a rusted metal grate barely visible against the moss-covered rock face.
The air here was colder, biting, carrying the faint, earthy smell of damp soil and something else...
something metallic and stale, like old machinery. Death, perhaps.
Liam paused, his good hand resting on the grate, then glanced back at me. “Stay close. Follow my lead. And if I tell you to shoot, you shoot. No hesitation. You understand?”
“I understand,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
He nodded, then with a grunt of effort, heaved the grate open.
It screeched, a rusty lament, then fell inwards with a dull thud, revealing a black, gaping maw.
A gust of cold, fetid air rushed out, carrying the scent of mold, dust, and something indescribable, something that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
The shaft descended steeply, a dark, narrow tunnel leading straight into the earth’s guts.
“After you, Pakhan,” I murmured, a sarcastic edge to my voice that only he would catch. He gave me a sharp glance, a dangerous spark in his eyes, but didn’t comment.
He squeezed through the opening first, his broad shoulders scraping against the rusted metal. The sound of his movements was muffled, swallowed by the darkness. Then came the soft thud of his boots on something loose and crumbling below.
“Okay, Rose,” his voice echoed, low and rough from the depths. “Your turn.”
I took another deep breath, forcing my trembling limbs to obey.
I slid through the opening, the cold metal gate scraping against my vest, then my back.
I half-fell, half-climbed down the short, steep drop, my boots landing on loose rocks and decaying rubble.
The darkness was absolute, pressing in on me, suffocating.
My hand instantly flew to the small tactical flashlight attached to my vest, clicking it on.
A narrow beam of harsh white light cut through the oppressive black, illuminating a cramped, claustrophobic tunnel.
The walls were rough-hewn stone, patched with rusted metal plates and thick, ancient pipes that snaked along the ceiling and floor.
Dust motes danced in the beam, thick and suffocating.
The air was heavy, metallic, and carried the stench of stagnant water and decay.
Liam was just ahead, his massive frame almost filling the narrow passage. He turned, his eyes glinting in the weak light. His wound pulsed, a dark stain already seeping through the new bandage on his side. He didn’t wince, but the tension in his jaw was palpable.
“This is your kingdom, moya roza,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper in the echoing tunnel. “Lead the way.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. My training. My research. I had studied these schematics, these forgotten blueprints, for weeks. Every twist, every turn, every disused access point. I had to be strong. For him. For us.
“Follow me,” I commanded, my voice surprisingly steady. I held the flashlight before me, its beam bouncing off the uneven surfaces, making shadows dance. The tunnel was cold, damp, and eerily silent, save for the soft scuff of our boots and the ragged sound of Liam’s breathing.
We moved slowly, cautiously. The air grew heavier, thicker, the deeper we descended. Every now and then, I’d stop, listening intently, my ears straining against the oppressive silence. The men behind us were equally quiet, ghosts in the dark, their presence a cold comfort.
The tunnel twisted, turned, forked. I relied on my memory, on the detailed mental map I’d constructed.
At one point, a section of the ceiling had collapsed, forcing us to crawl on our hands and knees through a narrow crevice.
Liam, even wounded, moved with a surprising grace, his powerful body navigating the tight space with a primal efficiency.
My body scraped against the rough stone, the claustrophobia pressing in, a thick, suffocating blanket. My breath hitched. I could feel the cold, clammy surface of the tunnel walls on my skin, the dust filling my lungs.
“You alright, Rose?” Liam’s voice, a low rumble, broke through the suffocating silence, his breath warm against the back of my neck. He was right behind me, his body a solid, unyielding presence, a strange anchor in the terrifying dark.
“Fine,” I choked out, pushing down the rising panic. “Just... tight.”
“Not the first time you’ve been in a tight spot, kitten,” he growled, his hand, rough and warm, finding the small of my back, pressing hard.
A jolt, not of fear, but of raw, illicit desire, shot through me.
Even here, in this goddamn rat hole, he still possessed that primal power.
He was a constant, dangerous reminder of the unyielding connection between us.
We crawled out into a slightly wider passage, the air here a little fresher, less heavy. I stood up, dusting off my clothes, trying to regain my composure. Liam was beside me in an instant, his eyes, dark and intense, scanning my face.
“We need to be careful here,” I whispered, pointing the flashlight at a series of faint scorch marks on the metal plates lining the walls. “These ventilation shafts were used to funnel exhaust from old power generators. There might be residual gases, or even pressure traps.”
He grunted, his gaze following the beam of my light. His good hand reached out, his fingers brushing against a patch of exposed skin on my arm, then sliding down to my wrist, his thumb stroking the pulse point. The simple touch sent a shiver down my spine, a desperate awareness of his proximity.
“Stay close,” he repeated, his voice lower, rougher. “Closer.” His eyes, dark and possessive, flickered to my lips, then dropped to my chest, where my breathing was coming too fast. “You’re scared. Good.”
“Good?” I whispered, my voice laced with disbelief.
“Fear makes you sharp,” he countered, his gaze burning into mine.
“It makes you listen. It makes you feel. And right now, Rose, I need you to feel everything.” His fingers tightened on my wrist, tugging me closer until our bodies were almost flush.
I could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle tremor in his powerful frame.
His scent – leather, gunpowder, and his unique, primal musk – filled my senses, intoxicating and dangerous.
“Liam,” I breathed, a warning and a plea.