Chapter 9 The Rose Cell

The groundskeeper's cottage stood dark against the night sky, a humble counterpoint to the mansion's grandeur. Behind us, emergency lights flashed as security personnel swarmed the estate grounds. The fire I'd started had grown beyond a simple distraction, consuming a portion of the east wing.

"Your father will assume we escaped through the main gates," Rowan said as we slipped inside the cottage. "That gives us maybe thirty minutes before he redirects the search here."

I moved quickly to a locked cabinet, retrieving an emergency bag I'd prepared years ago—cash, passport, burner phone, and a loaded Beretta.

Rowan raised an eyebrow at the gun. "Planning a vacation or a heist?"

"Being a Rothschild teaches you to prepare for contingencies." I changed out of my evening dress into jeans and a black sweater from the bag. "There's clothes for you too."

He turned away as I changed, a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture from a man who'd seen every inch of me before—or had he? That uncertainty lingered between us, a ghost of my original question: Who was he really?

"Your father will freeze your accounts," he said, pulling on the dark henley I'd provided. "Credit cards, properties, everything."

"He can try." I tucked the gun into my waistband. "But he doesn't know about all of them."

Rowan studied me with renewed interest. "You've been planning for this."

"Not this specifically. But I've always maintained resources outside my father's reach." I checked the burner phone—no signal yet. "We need to get to the highway."

We took the narrow service road that wound through the estate's extensive grounds, staying under the cover of trees. The cottage's ancient Jeep wasn't ideal, but it was registered under the groundskeeper's name, making it harder to trace.

"Where are we going?" Rowan asked as I drove, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors.

"Somewhere my father won't think to look."

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into an underground parking garage beneath a luxury high-rise in the city center. I used a keycard to access the private elevator.

"Penthouse?" Rowan guessed as I pressed the button for the top floor.

I shook my head. "That would be obvious. This building has something better."

The elevator opened directly into what appeared to be a standard apartment—until I moved to the bookshelf along the far wall, pressed my palm to a hidden scanner, and the entire unit slid aside to reveal another space beyond.

"My mother's private sanctuary," I explained, stepping through. "No one knows about it except me. Not even my father."

The hidden apartment was smaller but exquisitely designed—a living area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, bedroom, bathroom, and a compact kitchen. Most striking were the dozens of red roses in crystal vases scattered throughout the space, their perfume heavy in the air.

"The flowers are fresh," Rowan noted, instantly alert. "Someone's been here."

"I have them delivered weekly," I said, locking the entrance behind us. "Automated service. My mother loved roses."

He relaxed marginally, moving to the windows to survey the cityscape below. "We'll be safe here for tonight, but we need to move by morning. Your father's reach is extensive."

"I'm counting on it," I replied, connecting the burner phone to a secure network. "We need to draw him out, not run from him."

Rowan turned, eyeing me curiously. "You have a plan."

"The beginnings of one." I gestured to the phone. "First, I need to contact Julian. The files you sent from my father's computer need verification before the media will touch them."

As I worked, Rowan explored the apartment, his movements careful, methodical—cataloging exits, resources, vulnerabilities. The trained behavior of someone accustomed to calculating survival odds.

"Your mother kept quite the arsenal," he commented, discovering the gun safe hidden behind a painting.

"She didn't trust my father, even then." I looked up from the phone. "She knew about his experiments, or at least suspected. That's why she established this place—somewhere she could work without his oversight."

Rowan's fingers traced the spines of books on quantum mechanics and neural mapping. "She was brilliant. I remember—" he stopped abruptly.

"What?" I prompted.

"I remember her explaining consciousness transfer theory at a dinner party." He frowned. "But that can't be right. I never met your mother. She died before we were introduced."

I set down the phone, approaching him slowly. "Those aren't your memories. They're likely from one of the earlier subjects—or implanted to create a connection between us."

His jaw tightened. "How much of me is real, Cassia? How do I separate what actually happened from what they put in my head?"

The vulnerability in his question stripped away my remaining caution. I reached out, touching his face gently. "We'll find out. Together."

He caught my wrist, but instead of pushing me away, he turned his face into my palm, eyes closing briefly at the contact. When he looked at me again, something had shifted in his gaze—harder, more intense.

"You should stay away from me," he said, voice low. "Whatever your father did, it made me... unstable. There are moments when I'm not sure who's in control."

"I've noticed." I didn't withdraw my hand. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be." He stepped closer, still holding my wrist. "I've wanted to hurt you since the moment you bought me. To make you feel as powerless as I did."

"Then why haven't you?" I challenged. "You've had opportunities."

His free hand came up to curl around my throat—not squeezing, just resting there in a reminder of how easily he could. "Because there are other ways to possess someone. To break them."

The threat hung between us, electric and dangerous. I should have been terrified, but instead, a different kind of fear gripped me—the fear of recognizing how much I still wanted him, despite everything.

"Is that what this is about?" I asked quietly. "Possession?"

"Isn't that what it's always been about between us?" His thumb stroked along my jaw, a gentle counterpoint to his words. "You trying to own me. Me trying to possess you. Around and around we go."

"I didn't buy you for revenge," I admitted. "I bought you because even after everything, I couldn't bear to see someone else have you."

Something darkened in his eyes. "You don't deserve to love me, Cassia. Not after what you did."

"What I did?" Confusion rippled through me. "I wasn't the one who disappeared."

"No. You were the one who authorized the memory wipes." His grip on my throat tightened fractionally. "Each time I began to remember too much, you signed the order. Again and again and again."

Horror washed through me. "That's not true. I didn't know about any of this until the auction."

"Liar," he hissed, backing me against the wall. "I saw the documents. Your signature. Your handwriting on the observation notes."

"It wasn't me," I insisted, heart pounding. "My father must have forged it—or used someone who could mimic my signature."

Doubt flickered across his face, followed by confusion. His hand fell away from my throat. "I saw it. I remember..."

"False memories," I said gently. "Implanted to turn you against me. Think, Rowan. Why would my father go to such lengths to keep us apart, only to have me oversee your conditioning?"

He stepped back, rubbing his temple as if in pain. "It felt so real."

"That's what they designed it to do." I moved to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water and offering it to him. "Here. You're dehydrated. It affects memory recall."

He accepted the glass warily. "How do I know what's real anymore?"

"Start with what you know for certain," I suggested. "Basic facts about yourself that couldn't be implanted."

He considered this, sipping the water. "I know I'm right-handed naturally, but they altered neural pathways to make my left dominant. I know I speak four languages fluently—English, French, Mandarin, and Russian—but only learned Russian after the procedures."

"That's good," I encouraged. "What else?"

"I know—" he paused, setting down the glass. "I know I was in love with you. Before. That part feels... authentic."

The admission hung in the air between us, fragile and unexpected.

"And now?" I asked, barely above a whisper.

He moved toward me with predatory grace. "Now I feel everything and nothing. Rage, desire, hatred, need—all tangled together until I can't separate them."

He was close again, too close, the heat of him radiating against my skin. "You should have let me go, Cassia. Left me in that auction for someone else to buy."

"I couldn't," I confessed. "Even not knowing if you were really you—I couldn't let anyone else have you."

Something shifted in his expression—a decision made. He caught my face between his hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones in a gesture almost tender.

"Then have me," he said, voice rough. "But remember—you asked for this."

His mouth claimed mine with bruising force, nothing like the controlled kisses we'd once shared. This was possession, pure and raw—a taking rather than a giving. I should have pushed him away, preserved some dignity, some control. Instead, I pulled him closer, matching his intensity with my own.

He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the bedroom where red roses cast crimson shadows across white sheets. As he laid me down, his expression changed—something calculating entering his eyes.

"You know what this is, don't you?" he asked, hovering above me. "Not reconciliation. Not love."

"I know," I said, reaching for him anyway.

"I'm going to make you need me," he promised darkly, his hands sliding beneath my sweater. "Until you can't breathe without wanting me. And then..."

"Then what?" I challenged, even as my body arched into his touch.

"Then I'll leave you shattered." He pressed his lips to my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Just like you left me."

Warning bells sounded in my mind, but I silenced them. Whatever game he was playing, I was equally culpable—equally damaged. Perhaps this was the only language we could speak to each other now, the vocabulary of desire and possession.

His kisses grew more demanding, hands exploring with a confidence that suggested he knew exactly how to unravel me. And he did—finding sensitive spots I'd forgotten I had, drawing responses I couldn't control.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured against my collarbone. "I thought you'd be colder. More mechanical."

"Disappointed?" I gasped as his teeth found the curve of my breast.

"Intrigued." He looked up, eyes dark with desire and something harder to name. "You're not the woman in my memories. You're... more."

The admission felt like victory, small but significant. I pulled him back to me, claiming his mouth with mine, tasting blood where my teeth caught his lip.

He growled, the sound vibrating against my skin as he pinned my wrists above my head. "You like marking me? Proving I'm yours?"

"Yes," I admitted, beyond pretense.

"Then I'll mark you too," he promised, his free hand sliding between us. "So deeply you'll never forget who you belong to."

Outside, the city lights glittered like fallen stars. Inside, we created our own constellation of pleasure and pain, neither of us willing to surrender control, both of us desperate to claim something we'd lost—or perhaps had never truly possessed.

Later, as moonlight streamed through the windows, Rowan stood naked before the glass, his scarred body silvered in its glow. I watched him from the bed, cataloging the changes to his physique—new muscle definition, the surgical marks along his spine, the barcode at his nape.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, pulling the sheet around me.

He didn't turn. "That I've trapped myself as thoroughly as you once did."

"How so?"

Now he looked back, expression unreadable. "I came here planning to break you. To make you suffer before I left."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not sure I can leave." His admission seemed to cost him something. "Whatever they did to me, it didn't erase how I feel about you. It just... complicated it."

I rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around me as I joined him at the window. "Complicated how?"

"I hate you," he said simply. "And I want you. I don't trust you, but I need you. None of it makes sense."

"Welcome to love," I said softly. "It never did make sense."

He touched my face with surprising gentleness. "This isn't love, Cassia. This is obsession. Manufactured or real, it doesn't matter. It's consuming."

Before I could respond, the burner phone chimed. Julian had made contact.

The brief respite was over. Reality awaited—along with my father's inevitable counterattack.