Page 25 of Shadow Waltz

“Julian LeClerc,” he said, and my blood went cold. He knew the name. Of course he did. In a business like this, everyone knew everyone else's business.

“You know him?”

“I know of him. Small-time player, but useful for certain types of work.” His expression darkened in a way that suggested Julian's usefulness had just come to an abrupt end. “The kind of man who trades in favors and flesh because he lacks the vision for anything larger.”

“He's the one who sold me out,” I said, and my voice cracked on the words despite my efforts to stay composed. “I trusted him. I loved him, and he?—”

The words died in my throat, but The Prince’s expression shifted again, something almost protective flickering in those dangerous green eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly. “He owed money to people who don't accept excuses. You were his payment.”

The casual way he said it made something break loose in my chest—not pain exactly, but a terrible understanding that I'd been nothing more than currency in a transaction I'd never even known was happening.

“But it wasn't just debt,” The Prince continued, and now his voice carried an edge that suggested someone was going to pay for what had been done to me. “Julian had been feeding my people intelligence for months, tracking your movements like a hunter studying prey. When the debt came due, he didn't just hand over cash—he delivered you gift-wrapped with a detailed dossier of exactly how to find you.”

It wasn't just betrayal—it was systematic stalking, months of Julian pretending to care while documenting my vulnerabilities for sale. Every safe house I'd shown him, every routine I'd fallen into, every moment of trust had been catalogued and sold to the highest bidder.

I must have swayed, because suddenly The Prince was there, one hand steady on my shoulder, the other hovering near my elbow as if ready to catch me if I fell.

“Breathe,” he said, voice calm and authoritative but somehow soothing. “You're safe now. Whatever he did, whatever he took from you, it's over.”

“Safe?” The word came out as a bitter laugh. “I'm your property now. How is that safe?”

“Because,” The Prince said, and his grip on my shoulder tightened just enough to be reassuring rather than threatening, “I protect what's mine. And anyone who tries to hurt what belongs to me learns very quickly why that's a mistake they don't get to make twice.”

The promise was wrapped in violence, but underneath it was something I'd never expected to hear from someone like him—genuine care. Not love, not affection, but the kind of protective instinct that suggested my wellbeing actually mattered to him beyond simple economics.

I looked up at him, this beautiful, dangerous man who'd bought me like a piece of furniture, and felt something shift in my chest. Not hope—I wasn't ready for that yet. But maybe the beginning of understanding that this particular hell might be different from the others.

“So what happens now?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The Prince's hand moved from my shoulder to cup my cheek, thumb tracing the edge of my split lip with surprising gentleness. “Now you heal. Now you learn that not everyone who owns you wants to break you.”

The touch was electric, careful, completely at odds with everything I'd expected from someone with his reputation. When he stepped back, I almost followed, drawn by the promise of safety I'd heard in his voice.

“Eat,” he said, nodding toward the untouched food. “Rest. Let your body recover from whatever my people did to you.” His expression hardened slightly. “The guards who exceeded their instructions will be dealt with.”

I didn't ask what “dealt with” meant in his world. I was beginning to understand that The Prince’s protection came with a price that others would pay.

He moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at me with something unreadable in his expression. “You know why names matter, don't you?”

I nodded carefully, not sure where this was going.

“Names bind you to the world. Names are how we claim what's ours and how we let go.” He studied my face, seeming to weigh something important. “So if I give you mine, it means I'mnot afraid of what you can do with it. It means you're no longer just a transaction to me.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications I wasn't ready to examine.

“Luka,” he said finally. “That's my name. You can use it, if you think it'll help you sleep.”

The syllables landed with the weight of a gift I wasn't sure I deserved. A name freely given, a small piece of power handed to someone who had none.

“Ash,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. “You probably already knew.”

His smile was small but genuine. “I make it my business to know everything about what's mine. But hearing you say it makes it real.”

As the door closed behind him, I found myself touching my split lip where his thumb had traced it, wondering if this was how Stockholm syndrome began—with unexpected gentleness from someone who held your life in their hands.

But sitting there in the golden light of my gilded cage, I realized I didn't care about the psychology of it. For the first time in months, someone had touched me without causing pain, had spoken my name like it mattered, had promised protection instead of use.