Page 135 of Shadow Waltz

As dawn broke over Manhattan, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold that reminded me of the masquerade ball where everything had started to unravel, I realized that some love stories could only end in fire and destruction, tested by forces that would destroy anything less than absolute commitment.

I'd built an empire from nothing, had accumulated power and wealth and influence that most people could never imagine. But all of it was worthless without Ash, meaningless without the person who'd taught me that monsters like us could choose to love instead of just survive.

“Sir,” Troy said as I finished loading weapons that would either bring Ash home or ensure we died together, “are you sure about this? Once we start, there's no going back. No negotiating, no compromising, no accepting anything less than getting him back or dying in the attempt.”

I looked at him, seeing concern and loyalty and the understanding that he was about to follow me into a war we couldn't win through conventional means. “I've never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Because some things were worth burning the world for. Some people were worth sacrificing everything to protect. And some love stories could only be written in blood and fire, tested by forces that would destroy anything less than the willingness to lose everything rather than accept separation.

Ash was gone, taken by people who understood exactly how to destroy me without killing me. But they'd made one crucial mistake—they'd assumed that losing him would break me, would render me incapable of the kind of systematic violence required to get him back.

What they'd actually done was remove every constraint that had kept my capacity for destruction in check. Without Ash to protect, without a future to preserve, I was free to become the monster they'd always accused me of being.

24

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

ASH

The interrogation room was a sterile box designed to break minds through sensory deprivation and psychological pressure, but after eight years of surviving situations that would have destroyed most people, I found the federal approach almost quaint. Detective Reddick sat across from me at a metal table bolted to the floor, his dark eyes studying my face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle that had been haunting him for months.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with mechanical persistence, casting harsh shadows that made everyone look like corpses waiting for burial. But it was the way Reddick's gaze kept drifting to the diamond collar at my throat that told me everything I needed to know about his true motivations for this conversation.

“Let's start simple,” Reddick said, activating a recording device with movements that were too careful, too controlled. “State your name for the record.”

“Ashford Carter,” I replied, letting my voice carry the kind of bored contempt that suggested his authority meant nothing to me. “Though I suspect you already know that, along with my shoe size, blood type, and every address I've lived at since aging out of foster care.”

Reddick's jaw tightened slightly, confirmation that he'd done exactly the kind of comprehensive background investigation I'd assumed. “Tell me about Luka Markovic.”

“What would you like to know?” I asked, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair with deliberate casualness. “His favorite color? His preferred method of eliminating competition? The way he looks when he comes?”

The crude observation hit its target with surgical accuracy. I watched Reddick's pupils dilate slightly, saw the way his breathing changed when I mentioned intimate details about the man he'd been hunting. This wasn't just professional interest—this was personal obsession disguised as law enforcement.

“I want to know about your relationship with him,” Reddick said, voice carefully controlled despite the obvious tension building in his posture. “How it started, how it's evolved, whether you're being held against your will.”

“And if I told you I was being held against my will?” I asked, tilting my head in the gesture that made me look younger and more vulnerable. “What would you do about it?”

“I'd ensure your safety,” Reddick replied immediately, leaning forward with the kind of eager intensity that revealed exactly how invested he was in my answer. “Federal protection, witness relocation, whatever resources necessary to keep you away from him permanently.”

I laughed, the sound sharp and bitter in the sterile room. “Resources to keep me away from him, or resources to keep me with you?”

I watched Reddick process what I was suggesting. His face cycled through denial, anger, and something that looked disturbingly like relief at having his desires acknowledged openly.

“I'm a federal agent,” he said, but the protest sounded hollow even to his own ears. “My only interest is in your welfare and safety.”

“Bullshit,” I said bluntly, studying his face with the same analytical intensity he'd been directing at me. “Your interest is in replacing one form of ownership with another that you find more palatable. You want to convince yourself that desire disguised as duty is somehow more legitimate than honest possession.”

Reddick's hands clenched into fists on the table surface, and I could see him struggling with the truth of what I was suggesting. “Your feelings for Markovic aren't real—they're a psychological defense mechanism developed to cope with captivity.”

“And what psychological condition explains your obsession with saving me?” I asked, letting my voice drop to barely above a whisper. “What clinical term describes a federal agent who spends months hunting fugitives because he can't accept that someone might choose a dangerous life over a safe one?”

The question hit like a blade finding its mark, because it forced him to confront the personal nature of his pursuit. This wasn't about justice or professional duty—this was about his inability to accept that I might make different choices than the ones he wished I would make.

“I could give you everything,” Reddick said quietly, his voice carrying undertones that made my skin crawl. “Safety, protection, a normal life where you don't have to perform submission to survive. I could make sure you never have to be afraid again.”

“And in exchange?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Gratitude,” he replied, but the word carried implications that revealed his true motivations. “Understanding that some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good.”