Page 136 of Shadow Waltz
I felt something cold and calculating unfurl in my mind, because I understood exactly what he was proposing. He wanted me to submit to his protection, to accept his authority, to gradually learn to associate safety with pleasing the man who provided it. It was the same psychological dynamic he accused Luka of employing, just wrapped in the rhetoric of law enforcement.
“You want me,” I said bluntly, watching his face cycle through shock and denial before settling into something that looked like hunger. “You've convinced yourself that wanting me is somehow more legitimate when disguised as rescue.”
“That's not—” Reddick started, but the protest died when he saw the knowing look in my eyes.
“During our conversations, the way you look at the collar, the questions you ask about my relationship with Luka, the way your breathing changes when I move.” I leaned forward, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. “You're not gathering intelligence—you're indulging fantasies.”
Reddick's face went pale, and I could see him processing the implications of having his desires exposed so clearly. “I'm trying to understand the psychological dynamics of your captivity.”
“You're trying to imagine what it would feel like to replace him,” I corrected, letting predatory satisfaction color my voice. “You're wondering what it would take to convince me to wear a collar with your name on it instead of his.”
The accusation sent visible tension through his body, and I watched him struggle with the truth of it. His desire for me had started as professional concern and gradually evolved intopersonal obsession, but he'd never been honest with himself about what he really wanted.
“The difference between you and Luka,” I continued, my voice carrying the kind of analytical calm that came from understanding exactly how power worked, “is that he's honest about what he wants. He doesn't pretend that ownership is rescue or that control is protection. He owns me because he wants me, and I stay because I choose to.”
“Choice,” Reddick repeated, as if the word was foreign in his mouth. “You call what you have with him choice?”
“More choice than what you're offering,” I replied. “Luka asks me what I want. He values my intelligence, respects my insights, treats me as partner rather than patient. What you're proposing is another form of captivity, just with better public relations.”
I could see Reddick processing this assessment, understanding that his version of salvation looked remarkably similar to the imprisonment he claimed to oppose. The only difference was that he'd convinced himself his motivations were pure.
“You're sick,” he said finally, but there was no conviction behind the words. “You've been conditioned to rationalize abuse as love.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, standing and moving toward the door with deliberate casualness. “But at least I'm honest about what I want and who I want it from. Can you say the same?”
“Sit the fuck down,” Reddick snapped, his professional composure finally cracking under the weight of exposed truths. “We're not finished here.”
I paused at the door, hand resting on the frame as I looked back at him with deliberate insolence. “Actually, Detective, I think we are. Unless you want to continue this conversation about your sexual fantasies on the record?”
His face flushed dark red, and I could see his hands trembling with barely contained rage. “You think you're clever, don't you? You think exposing my... interest... somehow invalidates everything I'm trying to tell you about your situation?”
“I think you're a hypocrite,” I replied, turning back to face him fully. “I think you've convinced yourself that wanting to own me is somehow more noble when you call it rescue instead of purchase.”
“I never said I wanted to own you,” Reddick protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
“You didn't have to say it,” I said, moving back toward the table with predatory grace. “It's written all over your face every time you look at this collar. You're not imagining how to take it off—you're imagining how it would feel to put one on me yourself.”
The accusation hit its target with devastating accuracy. I watched Reddick's breathing become irregular, saw the way his pupils dilated when I traced the diamond setting with deliberate slowness.
“The first time we met,” I continued, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “You looked at me like I was something broken that you could fix. But that wasn't compassion in your eyes—it was hunger.”
Reddick's face went pale as I forced him to confront memories he'd probably spent years rationalizing. “You were young. Traumatized. I was trying to help.”
“You were trying to possess,” I corrected. “Even then, you were calculating what it would take to make me dependent on your protection. The only difference is that now you have the authority to act on those impulses.”
“You're wrong,” he said, but the protest sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“Am I?” I leaned forward, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. “Tell me, Detective—when you masturbate, do you imagine me grateful for your rescue, or do you imagine me wearing chains that you put there?”
The crude question sent visible shock through his system, but I caught the way his breathing hitched, the unconscious shift in his posture that confirmed I'd struck the exact nerve I'd been aiming for.
“Guards!” Reddick called suddenly, his voice cracking with emotional strain. “Get him out of here. Now.”
But even as he summoned backup, I could see the hunger still burning in his eyes, the frustrated desire that my words had inflamed rather than diminished. This wasn't over—it was just beginning.
“Think about what I said, Detective,” I called as the door opened and footsteps approached. “Think about whether you really want to save me, or whether you just want to own me with a cleaner conscience.”
The silence that followed was heavy with implications that neither of us was ready to voice, but both of us understood perfectly.