Page 155 of Shadow Waltz
The room we were led to overlooked gardens that were probably magnificent in spring but now showed the bare bones of winter approaching. Cass sat by the window in a wheelchair that was clearly necessary rather than convenient, their body having been carved away by illness until only the essential architecture remained.
But when they looked up and saw Ash, their face transformed with joy so radiant it made my chest ache with recognitionof what true friendship looked like when tested by time and trauma.
“Fuck me sideways,” Cass said, their voice carrying traces of the street accent that had never been completely polished away. “Look what the cat dragged in. And here I was thinking you'd forgotten all about your old partner in crime.”
Ash crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside the wheelchair and gathering Cass into a hug that was careful of medical equipment but fierce with eighteen months of desperate searching. “I never stopped looking for you. Never stopped hoping you were alive somewhere.”
“Well, alive is a relative term these days,” Cass replied, but their smile took any sting out of the words. “But breathing, conscious, and pleased as punch to see that someone taught you how to dress properly. That collar's a nice touch—very expensive looking.”
I watched Ash flush with the combination of pride and embarrassment that came from having intimate details of his life noticed by someone whose opinion mattered. “Cass, this is Luka. The man I told you about in all those letters I never sent.”
Cass's attention shifted to me with the kind of protective assessment that came from years of evaluating whether people could be trusted with precious things. “So you're the Prince,” they said, extending a hand that was all bones and determination. “The man who bought our boy and somehow managed to fall in love with him instead of just using him up.”
“I am,” I replied, accepting the handshake and feeling the surprising strength in fingers that looked too fragile to support such firm grip. “And you're the friend who taught him that some people were worth surviving for.”
“Damn right I am,” Cass confirmed, their smile revealing teeth that were too white and too perfect to be anything but expensive replacements. “Though I have to say, he looks betterfed and better dressed than when I knew him. You've been taking good care of our boy.”
The possessive way Cass said 'our boy' should have triggered territorial instincts, but instead it sent warmth through my chest because it confirmed that Ash had found his way back to someone who loved him unconditionally, someone whose approval would complete the healing process that had been ongoing since the day I'd first put a collar around his throat.
“He takes good care of himself,” I corrected, understanding that Cass needed to see Ash as agent rather than object. “I just provide the resources and protection for him to make his own choices.”
“Good answer,” Cass said, settling back in their wheelchair with the satisfaction of someone whose concerns had been addressed. “Though I have to ask—that collar's not just jewelry, is it?”
But before I could respond, Ash's voice cut through the moment with desperate urgency. “Cass, how did you get here? To Scotland? The last time I saw you, we were in Chicago and they were dragging you away from that warehouse. I tried to follow, tried to stop them, but?—”
“Hey, hey,” Cass said gently, reaching out to take Ash's hand with fingers that were steadier than they looked. “That wasn't your fault, love. You were seventeen and scared and outnumbered. There was nothing you could have done.”
“But what happened to you?” Ash pressed, and I could see the guilt he'd been carrying for eight years written in every line of his face. “Where did they take you? How did you end up here?”
Cass was quiet for a moment, and I caught the way their eyes flicked to me as if measuring whether I could be trusted with whatever they were about to reveal. “The men who took me were traffickers. I didn’t realize it at first. But the man who bought me—he wasn’t like the others. He… took care of me. Treated me like I mattered. It took me months to understand that being chosen by him was the only reason I made it out at all.”
“Took care of you?” Ash's voice cracked with the weight of eight years of wondering.
“A man named Edward Sinclair. Scottish businessman, lost his own son to trafficking years before and decided to do something about it. He'd been funding extraction operations, identifying kids who could be rehabilitated rather than just... used up.” Cass's smile was soft and grateful. “He brought me here, got me medical care, therapy, education. Gave me a chance to heal instead of just survive.”
I felt something twist in my chest that might have been jealousy or gratitude or both, because while I'd been building an empire on the systematic exploitation of people like Ash and Cass, someone else had been quietly working to undo the damage people like me had caused.
“Where is he now?” I asked, genuinely curious about this man who'd apparently spent his fortune saving children from the system I'd helped perpetuate.
“Dead five years now,” Cass replied, though their tone carried fondness rather than grief. “Cancer, same as what's killing me now. But he made sure I was taken care of, that there would always be resources for medical treatment, that I'd never have to worry about surviving on the streets again.”
Ash's tears were flowing freely now, relief and gratitude and eight years of guilt finally finding release. “He saved you.”
“He gave me a choice,” Cass corrected, echoing the language that had become central to our own relationship. “Just like your Prince here gave you a choice. Different circumstances, different methods, but the same fundamental recognition that some people are worth saving even when they can't save themselves.”
Ash nodded.
“Though I have to ask—that collar's not just jewelry, is it?” Cass asked.
Ash's hand moved automatically to his throat, fingers tracing the familiar weight of diamonds and leather. “It's complicated. It started as ownership, became belonging, evolved into something that means choice and commitment and home all at the same time.”
“And you chose to keep wearing it?”
“I chose him,” Ash replied simply. “Everything else followed from that decision.”
Cass nodded slowly, processing the implications with the kind of street-smart intelligence that had probably kept them alive through eight years of hell. “Then I suppose congratulations are in order. You found someone worth choosing and someone who considers you worth choosing back. That's more than most people manage in a lifetime.”
The conversation that followed lasted six hours, broken only by medical interventions and meal service that none of us really wanted. Cass and Ash caught each other up on eight years of separation, sharing stories that ranged from heartbreaking to triumphant, establishing that their connection had survived everything the world had done to try to destroy it.