Page 143 of Shadow Waltz

The city rolled by in a blur of broken light and distant sirens. Ash’s eyes closed, his breathing shallow but stubborn. Every second was a prayer, every mile a reckoning.

When we reached the safe house, Troy and Dmitri rushed him inside, laying him on the bed, working together to stem the bleeding. I hovered over Ash, helpless, broken, unable to do anything but hold his hand.

He blinked up at me, pale but alive, defiant as ever. “Do you regret it?” he rasped, voice barely there.

I shook my head, tears burning. “Not a single thing. You’re worth everything. Worth the blood. Worth the chaos. Worth burning down the world.”

Ash tried to smile. “Good. Because I’d do it all again, just for you.”

His fingers tightened in mine, strength fading but grip unbroken.

Some things are worth becoming monsters to protect.

Some love stories are written in blood and fire, the kind that only make sense if you’re willing to bleed for them—over and over, no matter how many ghosts you add to the city’s darkness.

And as the sun rose, painting the safe house in uncertain light, I finally understood: loving Ash would never make me a hero, but losing him would make me less than human.

26

EVER AFTER

ASH

The first thing I felt was warmth—real warmth, not the damp chill of tunnels or the stinging burn of gunfire. My body was heavy, tethered to the bed by pain and fatigue, and somewhere in the thick quiet of the room, I heard the steady hum of city life outside insulated glass.

My mind fought for clarity. The penthouse. I knew this ceiling, those impossible floor-to-ceiling windows spilling gold morning light across polished floors. The city outside was a smear of blues and grays and rising sun, but inside it was quiet. Too quiet. It was Luka’s territory, and somehow I was here, alive.

A low rustle, and then Luka’s silhouette—leaning forward in the velvet chair beside the bed, elbows on knees, face in his hands. For once, his posture was small, folded in on itself, stripped of all the armor he wore for everyone else. He looked so tired, I wondered if he’d slept at all.

“Hey,” I rasped, surprised by the sound of my own voice.

His head jerked up, and for a second he just stared, searching my face as if he couldn’t trust I was real. There were new lines around his eyes. His stubble was heavier than I’d ever seen. I realized with a twist that I’d never seen him so undone.

“Ash,” he breathed, and just that—my name, nothing else—carried the weight of everything we’d been through.

“How long?” I croaked.

“Thirty-seven hours,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve been in and out. The doctors… they did everything they could.” His hands flexed on his knees. “You’re going to be okay. You have to be.”

The memory slammed back: the tunnel, Reddick’s wild eyes, the sound of the gun. Pain flared in my side, sharp and deep, and I gasped, biting down on a curse.

Luka was beside me in an instant, careful but desperate, a hand on my shoulder. “You’re safe. It’s over. He can’t touch you now. No one can.”

I turned my face away, throat tight. “I should’ve moved faster.”

He shook his head, fierce. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I was right there. I should have seen it coming. I should have?—”

He broke off, voice fracturing on the words.

I reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist. “We both survived.”

He caught my hand, gripping it like a lifeline. His eyes were glassy. “You scared me more than anything ever has. I thought—” He sucked in a breath, jaw working. “I thought I’d lost you.”

There was nothing to say to that except the truth. “You didn’t.”

For a long moment, the silence in the penthouse was a living thing—thick with everything we’d never let ourselves admit, everything we’d killed to protect. My chest hurt in a dozen places, but none of it compared to the ache in Luka’s eyes.

“I killed him,” he said quietly. “Reddick. After he shot you. I didn’t even think. I just—” His hand clenched around mine. “He looked relieved, Ash. Like it was the first honest thing either of us had done in years.”