Page 24 of Shadow Waltz
The shower called to me like a siren song—hot water, real soap, the promise of feeling clean for the first time in months. I stripped carefully, cataloguing every bruise and scar in the mirror before stepping under water hot enough to scald. The heat penetrated muscles I didn't know were tense, washing away layers of grime and fear and the lingering smell of the holding cells.
But as I stood there letting the water run over my skin, memory ambushed me without warning. Not the recent betrayals and fresh wounds, but something older and infinitely more painful. Julian's hands in my hair, Julian's mouth hot against my neck, the desperate fumbling of two boys whothought sex could fill the hollows that family had carved out of their hearts.
We'd been lovers for six months before I realized Julian was already planning how to use me, how to trade me for something better. I'd loved him, or thought I did, with the desperate intensity of someone who'd never been wanted by anyone beautiful. But Julian's love had been performance art, carefully crafted to make me easier to betray when the time came.
The memory left me shaking as I wrapped myself in a towel that probably cost more than I used to make in a week. Julian's betrayal had taught me that desire was just another weapon people used against you, that letting someone see your vulnerabilities was the fastest way to get them turned into ammunition.
I explored the suite more thoroughly, looking for hidden cameras and microphones. I found them, of course—tiny lenses disguised as decorative elements, audio pickups hidden in light fixtures and picture frames. The surveillance was comprehensive but subtle, the work of someone who understood that privacy was an illusion but preferred to maintain the pretense.
A tray of food waited on the marble-topped table—real food, not the prison slop I'd grown accustomed to. Roasted chicken that smelled like heaven, vegetables that actually had color, bread that was still warm from the oven. My stomach clenched with hunger, but I couldn't bring myself to trust it. Food could be drugged as easily as water, and trust was a mistake I'd made too many times to count.
Hours passed in silence broken only by the distant sounds of the city beyond the reinforced windows. I sat on the edge of the bed, cradling my bruised ribs where the guards had landed their final blows. The split lip I'd earned in the struggle throbbed with each heartbeat, a reminder that this time was different.This time, there would be no escape, no rescue, no miraculous intervention. I was truly and completely trapped, property of a man whose reputation made my previous owners look like amateurs.
When the door finally opened, I didn't turn around. I'd heard the footsteps in the hallway, the quiet conversation between guards, the electronic click of locks disengaging. Whoever The Prince was, he moved with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted his ability to control any situation.
“You didn't eat,” he said, and his voice carried accents that spoke of education and travel and a world far beyond anything I'd ever known.
I still didn't turn around, wincing as the movement pulled at my sore ribs. “Food could be drugged.”
“It could be,” he agreed, moving into the room with footsteps that made no sound on the marble floor. “But if I wanted you unconscious, there are more efficient methods than spiked chicken.”
The casual way he discussed drugging me should have been threatening, but threats required the ability to fear outcomes worse than the status quo. When you were already in hell, the geography didn't matter much.
“Turn around,” he said, and there was steel underneath the polite request, but something else too—something that might have been concern.
I obeyed because resistance was pointless, and found myself face-to-face with the man who'd bought me. The Prince stood a few feet away, mask removed to reveal a face that belonged in Renaissance paintings—sharp cheekbones, dark hair perfectly styled, eyes the color of deep forests that had never known sunlight.
But where Julian's beauty had been soft and deceiving, this man's was all sharp edges and controlled violence. He worea perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, and he moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to kill with his bare hands and found the knowledge useful.
His eyes took in my appearance with clinical assessment—the split lip, the careful way I held my left side, the defensive posture that spoke to recent violence. Something flickered across his features, too quick to interpret.
“They hurt you,” he said, and it wasn't a question.
“I fought back.” The words came out rougher than intended, defiance bleeding through despite my exhaustion. “What did you expect?”
“I expected exactly what happened.” He moved closer, and this time when I tensed, he stopped just outside my personal space. “But I didn't authorize them to damage what belongs to me.”
The possessiveness in his voice should have made me angry, but instead it sent something complicated through my chest. Not comfort exactly, but the strange relief of being valuable enough to protect, even in retrospect.
“You're smaller than I thought,” he said, studying me with what I was beginning to recognize as genuine curiosity rather than simple appraisal.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I didn't say it was disappointing.” He tilted his head slightly, and I caught something almost gentle in his expression. “I said you were smaller. Not weaker.”
The distinction hit harder than it should have, because it suggested he saw something in me beyond just another broken victim. But I was too tired to process hope, too beaten down to trust unexpected kindness.
“You're not what I expected,” he continued, voice softer now. “The reports described someone with fight left in him. Spirit.Defiance. What I see is someone who's been fighting so long he's forgotten what he's fighting for.”
The observation cut too close to the truth. I wrapped my arms around my ribs, partly for comfort, partly to hold myself together. “Maybe your intelligence was wrong.”
“My intelligence is never wrong.” The Prince stepped closer, close enough that I could see the concern he was trying to hide behind professional interest. “Which means something broke you between your capture and tonight. Something final.”
He was too perceptive for my comfort, too good at reading the psychological damage that others had missed. I kept my expression neutral, but I could feel him cataloguing every micro-expression, every tell that might reveal the extent of my collapse.
“Who broke you?” he asked, and there was something in his voice that definitely sounded like genuine concern now, carefully controlled but unmistakably present.
“Everyone,” I said simply, the admission tasting like defeat. “But Julian finished the job.”