Page 156 of Shadow Waltz
But it was when Cass began showing signs of fatigue that Dr. Morrison suggested we break for the evening, promising that visiting hours were flexible and that we could return whenever Ash was ready to continue the reunion.
“One more thing,” Cass said as we prepared to leave, their voice carrying the weight of something important that needed to be said. “I want to see you get married.”
The request hit like lightning in clear sky, because we'd never discussed marriage, had never moved beyond the understanding that we belonged to each other in ways that transcended legal definitions. But looking at Ash's face, seeing the way hisexpression shifted through surprise and hope and something that looked like yearning, I realized that formal commitment might be exactly what we needed to complete the transition from owner and property to genuine partners.
“That can be arranged,” I said, watching Ash's eyes widen with surprise and delight. “If that's what Ash wants.”
“Is it?” Cass asked, though their tone suggested they already knew the answer.
“Yes,” Ash said quietly, his hand finding mine with the kind of desperate grip that suggested he was afraid I might change my mind. “It is.”
The proposal I made three days later took place in Cass's room at the medical center, witnessed by someone whose opinion mattered more than state officials or religious authorities. I knelt beside Ash's chair with a ring that had been crafted by Edinburgh's finest jeweler, white gold and sapphires that would complement rather than compete with the collar he'd never remove.
“Marry me,” I said, the words carrying eighteen months of building toward this moment. “Not because you belong to me, but because I want to belong to you. Not because I own you, but because I want to choose you every day for the rest of our lives.”
Ash's yes was barely audible, but the tears streaming down his face spoke to emotions too large for words. When I slipped the ring onto his finger, I felt something settle in my chest that I'd never known was displaced—the understanding that some forms of commitment transcended ownership or possession to become something approaching sacred.
“About fucking time,” Cass said from their wheelchair, though their own tears revealed exactly how much this moment meant to them. “I was starting to think you two were going to dance around each other forever instead of making it official.”
The wedding we planned took place a week later in the conservatory of our London townhouse, witnessed by Troy and Dmitri and Mason and the Calloways, everyone who constituted our chosen family gathered to celebrate something that had started in darkness and violence and somehow become beautiful enough to justify every cost we'd paid to protect it.
Cass attended via video call from their medical facility, technology allowing them to witness vows that had been written to acknowledge our unconventional beginning while promising a future built on choice rather than compulsion.
“I promise to choose you,” Ash said when it came time for vows, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what we were undertaking. “Every day, in every circumstance, regardless of what the world thinks about how we started or where we've ended up. I promise to wear your collar as symbol of belonging rather than ownership, to submit to your dominance because it serves us both, to love you with everything I have because you've proven worthy of that gift.”
“I promise to earn your choice,” I replied, meaning every word more than I'd meant anything in my life. “Every day, through every decision, by remembering that your submission is gift rather than surrender. I promise to dominate you in ways that elevate rather than diminish who you are, to protect what we've built without destroying what makes it worth protecting, to love you with everything I am because you've made me someone worthy of that honor.”
When we kissed to seal the commitment we'd made, I tasted salt and hope and the understanding that some fairy tales could only be written by people willing to fight for their happy ending. The collar around Ash's throat caught the light from crystal chandeliers, diamonds sparkling like captured stars in the elegance we'd created from the wreckage of everything we'd destroyed to be together.
Two weeks later, Cass passed away peacefully in their sleep, having lived long enough to see their childhood friend find the kind of love they'd both dreamed about during the darkest moments of their shared trauma. The funeral was small, attended only by people who understood that some bonds transcended conventional definitions of family or friendship.
“They died happy,” Ash said as we stood beside the grave in Edinburgh's ancient cemetery, rain falling like tears from a sky that understood the weight of what we were grieving. “Knowing that I'd found someone worth choosing, someone who considered me worth choosing back.”
“They died knowing that their love for you helped make you someone capable of accepting love from others,” I corrected, understanding that Cass's influence had been foundational to everything Ash had become. “Their friendship gave you the foundation to recognize genuine care when you encountered it.”
As we returned to London and the life we'd built from choices that most people would never understand, I realized that our story had finally reached its proper conclusion. Not the ending I'd expected when I'd first bid on a beautiful boy at an underground auction, but the ending we'd earned through refusing to accept that love and power couldn't coexist.
The townhouse welcomed us home with warmth and security and the promise of decades stretching ahead of us, decades to build legitimate businesses and charitable foundations and all the conventional happiness that people were supposed to want. But it was the collar around Ash's throat that reminded me of the unconventional foundation that made conventional happiness possible.
Some love stories began with once upon a time and ended with happily ever after.
Ours began with violence and choice and ended with the understanding that some people were worth becoming betterfor, worth changing everything to keep, worth defending against a world that would destroy what it couldn't understand.
And looking at my husband as he moved through our home with the confidence of someone who'd finally found where he belonged, I realized that our fairy tale ending was exactly what we'd fought for—the right to love each other freely, to choose each other daily, to build something beautiful from foundations that would horrify most people but had proven strong enough to support the weight of genuine happiness.
The collar around his throat caught the firelight as we settled in for our first evening as married partners, diamonds sparkling with promises that had been tested by federal task forces and rival organizations and psychological evaluation and every force that had tried to prove that what we felt for each other was pathology rather than choice.
But we'd proven them all wrong. We'd proven that love could grow from the strangest soil, that choice could exist within the boundaries of ownership, that some forms of captivity were more liberating than any freedom offered by people who'd never understood the difference between safety and happiness.
“Any regrets?” I asked, the question that had become our ritual.
“Just one,” Ash replied, settling against my chest with the fluid grace that still made my pulse quicken after two years of marriage. “I regret that it took us so long to make it official.”
“We had to earn it first,” I said, understanding that the journey had been necessary to become the people who deserved this ending. “Had to prove that what we felt was strong enough to survive everything the world could throw at it.”
“And now?”
“Now we get to wake up together every morning for the rest of our lives, knowing that we chose each other freely, defendedthat choice against everyone who tried to destroy it, and built something worth every price we paid to create it.”
As London settled into winter darkness around our Georgian sanctuary, I realized that some fairy tales could only be written in blood and shadow, tested by forces that would destroy anything less than absolute commitment. But the ones that survived that testing became something more precious than traditional happy endings—they became proof that love could transcend any circumstance when chosen by people brave enough to fight for it.
The collar around Ash's throat caught the dying firelight one last time before sleep claimed us both, a reminder that some symbols meant exactly what their wearers chose them to mean, regardless of what the world thought about their origins or significance.
We'd found our ever after. And it was beautiful.