Page 27 of Shadow Waltz

There was something calculating about the way he moved—fluid grace that spoke to years of survival training, intelligence that assessed threats and opportunities with every breath. His ice-blue eyes tracked my movement across the room, cataloguing weaknesses and potential weapons with themethodical patience of someone who'd spent his life planning escapes.

But underneath all that tactical awareness, I could see exhaustion. Real bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical sleep and everything to do with carrying too much weight for too long.

“Sleep well?” I asked, though the question was more genuine concern than courtesy.

Ash's laugh was bitter as black coffee. “Like a baby. Nothing helps you sleep like being sold to the highest bidder.”

The pain in those words hit me harder than it should have. I'd heard similar sentiments from dozens of acquisitions over the years, but something about the resigned acceptance in his voice made my chest tighten with an emotion I wasn't ready to name.

I moved to the marble-topped table, noting how his body language shifted to track potential threats, but also noticing the careful way he favored his left side—still hurting from whatever damage my people had inflicted during his capture.

“The food wasn't drugged,” I said, nodding toward the untouched tray from the night before. “Neither is the water. You need to eat, Ash. Your body's still healing.”

“Forgive me if I don't take your word for it,” Ash replied, but there was less venom in it than I'd expected. More exhaustion than rage, as if he'd burned through his anger sometime during the night and found only emptiness underneath.

I studied his face in the morning light, noting the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless hours and the defensive set of his shoulders. But underneath the wariness, I could see the intelligence that had kept him alive through multiple owners—quick thinking, adaptive strategy, the kind of survival instincts that money couldn't buy. The kind that reminded me uncomfortably of myself at that age.

“What do you want from me?” he asked quietly, and the simple question carried the weight of someone who'd learned that everything came with a price. There was something fragile in his voice, barely audible, that made me want to promise him things I'd never offered anyone.

It was a fair question. I'd paid half a million dollars for him, disrupted the auction's normal flow, drawn attention from competitors who were now questioning my judgment. What exactly had I bought? And why did looking at him make me feel like I was staring into a mirror that showed me who I used to be?

“I want to understand what makes you worth five hundred thousand dollars,” I said, then paused, softening my tone. “But more than that, I want to understand what you need to feel safe here.”

Ash's expression shifted, surprise flickering behind the defensive mask. He'd expected demands for submission or gratitude, not questions about his comfort.

“You paid the money,” he said carefully. “Shouldn't you already know what you bought?”

“I know what the reports say. Previous owners described you as intelligent, adaptable, requiring firm handling but ultimately trainable.” I moved closer, but stopped when I saw him tense, respecting the boundary his body language set. “But reports don't explain who you were before all this happened to you. They don't explain what you've lost, or what it's cost you to survive.”

Something flickered in Ash's eyes—recognition, maybe, that this conversation was different from what he'd experienced before. More understanding than interrogation, humanity rather than simple appraisal.

“Maybe I'm just hard to kill,” he said, but there was less edge to it now.

“Maybe. Or maybe you're someone who refuses to let the worst parts of this world destroy what matters about you.” Istopped just outside his personal space, close enough to see the calculation in his expression but far enough to avoid making him feel trapped. “The question isn't whether you're a threat to me, Ash. The question is whether I can be something other than a threat to you.”

Ash was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with the same intensity I was bringing to bear on his. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.

“What happens if you decide I'm too broken to be useful?”

The vulnerability in that question made something protective and fierce rise in my chest. “Then we work on putting the pieces back together,” I said simply. “I didn't pay half a million dollars to throw away something valuable just because it needs care.”

The honesty seemed to catch him off guard, and I saw something almost like hope flicker in his expression before he caught himself.

“And if you decide I can be useful?”

“Then we discuss terms of partnership that benefit both of us. Not ownership, Ash. Cooperation.”

“Partnership.” Ash's smile was small but genuine. “Is that what we're calling it?”

“Partnership suggests mutual benefit and shared risk. I'm proposing exactly that—your skills and perspective in exchange for protection, resources, and eventually, the kind of power that means no one can ever hurt you again.”

I watched him process that information, seeing the way his quick mind catalogued implications and possibilities. This was why he'd survived—not just physical resilience, but the intelligence to find hope in impossible situations.

“What kind of skills?” he asked, and I could hear him trying not to sound too interested.

“The kind that keeps someone alive through situations that would break most people.” I moved to the window, noting how he shifted to maintain visual contact, but also giving him space to breathe. “You understand how this world really works from the bottom up. That perspective is invaluable to someone like me.”

Ash was quiet for several seconds, and I could practically see him weighing options, calculating whether trust was a luxury he could afford.