Page 30 of Shadow Waltz

“You killed someone because they threatened me,” he said, and it wasn't a question.

“I killed someone because they threatened what's mine,” I replied, but the words felt inadequate. “But yes. Because they threatened you.”

“Why?” The simple question carried weight, real curiosity rather than strategic probing.

I could have given him a dozen practical answers—investment protection, organizational stability, maintaining authority. All true, but not the whole truth. “Because the thought of anyone hurting you made me want to burn the world down.”

The honesty surprised us both. I'd revealed more in that admission than I'd intended, but looking at Ash's face—the way his expression softened just slightly, the careful hope that crept into his eyes—I found I didn't regret it.

“That's not very businesslike,” Ash observed, but there was warmth in his voice now.

“No, it's not.” I moved closer, stopping when I was near enough to see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. “I'm learning that what I feel about you doesn't fit into neat categories.”

“What kind of offer are you really making me, Luka?” His use of my name sent heat through my chest.

“A chance to be valued for who you are instead of what you can provide.” I paused, studying his reaction. “And if you'll let me, something more than just professional cooperation.”

“More how?”

“I don't know yet,” I admitted. “But I know I want to find out. With you.”

Ash was quiet for a long moment, but I could see him processing not just my words but the emotion behind them. When he spoke, his voice was careful but not guarded.

“I accept your offer,” he said formally. “With the understanding that this is a partnership, not ownership. And that whatever develops between us happens because we both choose it.”

“Agreed,” I replied, extending my hand. When he took it, his grip was firm, warm, the handshake of someone sealing not just a contract but the beginning of something neither of us fully understood yet.

“What happens now?” he asked, not releasing my hand immediately.

“Now we figure out what we're building together,” I said. “And we take it one day at a time.”

As I finally let go of his hand, I realized that for the first time in fifteen years, I was looking forward to something I couldn't control or predict. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like the first real breath I'd taken in years.

7

WICKED BARGAINS

ASH

Acollar sat on the marble nightstand, looking like a death sentence wrapped in luxury, catching the morning light in ways that made my throat dry and my pulse quicken. Buttery soft leather, expensive as everything else in this golden cage, with a silver D-ring gleaming like a noose waiting for my neck.

My first instinct was rage, pure and cleansing. I was nobody's fucking pet, nobody's thing to be collared and led around for entertainment. The fury felt familiar, safe, like slipping on armor I'd worn so long it had molded to my shape.

But underneath the anger, something darker stirred—a recognition that made my skin flush with heat and shame in equal measure. This wasn't a request. It wasn't even a suggestion.

It was an order.

The collar felt heavier than it should have when I picked it up, like it was made of lead instead of leather. I could imagine how it would look against my throat, marking me as owned,claimed, possessed. The thought should have made me sick, should have sent me scrambling for whatever weapons I could find.

Instead, it sent electricity racing through my veins like liquid fire.

“Fuck you,” I muttered, hurling the collar across the room.

It hit the wall with a sound like a judge's gavel and dropped to the marble floor, the silver ring chiming against stone. But even lying there in apparent defeat, it seemed to mock me, patient as a spider waiting for prey to walk into its web.

The door opened without a knock, and Luka entered with that controlled grace that spoke to someone who chose his movements carefully. Dark slacks, white shirt that made his olive skin look carved from expensive stone, and when he saw the collar on the floor, something flickered across his features—not anger, but something almost like disappointment.

“I hoped you wouldn't do that,” he said quietly, moving to retrieve the leather with movements that were careful rather than predatory. There was resignation in his voice, the tone of someone who'd expected better but wasn't surprised by worse.