Page 32 of Shadow Waltz
I stroked myself, slow and tight, shuddering as need warred with shame. I tried to chase other memories, other bodies—Cass’s mouth, strangers’ hands in alleyways—but they all slipped away, replaced by Luka. His eyes, the cruel twist of his mouth, the promise of violence beneath the civility.
Fuck.
I squeezed my cock, felt it pulse in my grip, the need spiking as I let the fantasy take over. Luka behind me in the shower, fully clothed, pushing me to my knees on the marble. His hand tangled in my hair, the other wrapped tight around my throat, making sure I understood exactly who was in control. His cock heavy and hard, pressed against my lips, the leather collar tight as a warning.
“Good boy,” he’d murmur, voice velvet and steel. “Take it. You know you want to.”
I gasped, hand moving faster, twisting at the head, thumb smearing slick over the tip. The humiliation just made the heat burn hotter. I pictured Luka shoving me against the glass,spreading me open, using me like he owned every inch—because he did. Because he’d bought me, and now I was his to break, to fuck, to ruin.
My cock throbbed, leaking against my fist, every nerve on fire. I wanted to come, needed to, but I also wanted to be made to—wanted Luka’s hand wrapped around my cock instead, squeezing, owning, deciding when I could let go.
The shame tangled with the want, twisted tight in my gut. I hated myself for it, for how badly I needed to come for him, needed his praise, his approval, even if it came laced with cruelty.
I stroked harder, desperate now, hips jerking, breath ragged as the fantasy spiraled out of control. Luka’s voice in my ear.
“Put on the collar. Show me who you belong to. Stroke your cock for me, boy.”
The imagined command went straight to my core, raw and electric. I wanted to resist, wanted to spit in his face, but all I could do was obey—fucking myself for him, for the man who threatened to kill me if I didn’t submit.
The pressure built fast, shame and pleasure crashing together, and I came with a broken moan, cock jerking in my hand, thick streams spilling over my knuckles and down my thigh. I bit back a sob, half from release, half from humiliation. The water washed the evidence away, but it couldn’t touch the ache inside—the way I still wanted more, still wanted him, even now.
Afterward, I collapsed against the marble wall, legs trembling, chest heaving. My cock softened, sensitive and spent, but my mind kept replaying the fantasy, Luka’s voice, the weight of the collar.
I looked at my reflection in the steam-fogged mirror, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wild and hungry and lost. I didn’t know who I was anymore—just that I was someone who got hard forthe man who bought him, someone whose cock responded to threats and orders and the promise of being owned.
“Pathetic,” I whispered, but I didn’t stop tracing the wing tattoo on my wrist, as if it could remind me of something good, something free.
But freedom was a memory, and the ache in my cock was proof of what I really wanted. Even if I hated myself for it, even if Luka was the only one who’d ever be cruel enough—or careful enough—to see me.
And that terrified me more than any collar ever could.
The wing tattoo on my wrist caught the light, and I traced it with one finger while thinking about Cass's fierce belief that I deserved better than what the world had given me. But maybe they’d been wrong. Maybe this was exactly what I deserved—to be owned by someone who saw through my defiance to the broken thing underneath.
A knock at the bathroom door made me freeze, but Luka's voice carried the same commanding authority as before—no consideration, no patience.
“Breakfast,” Luka said, the single word somehow managing to convey both invitation and demand. “Now.”
Not 'when you're ready' or 'if you want to.' Just the expectation that I would obey because he'd given an order. Another reminder that my wants and needs were irrelevant to the equation.
I dried myself with towels that probably cost more than I used to make in a month, but the luxury felt like mockery now. Expensive chains were still chains, no matter how soft they felt against your skin.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I was carrying the collar in one hand—not because I'd made any decision, but because leaving it behind felt like the kind of defiance that would get me killed.
The dining alcovewas bathed in golden light, floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Manhattan spread out below us like a conquered territory. The table was set for two, laden with food that looked more like art than sustenance, but my appetite had died somewhere between waking up and realizing I was living on borrowed time.
Luka sat with his back to the windows, morning light creating sharp angles across his face, but when he looked up at me, I caught something unexpected in his expression—concern, quickly masked but unmistakably there.
I entered the dining alcove like a condemned man walking to his execution, collar held loosely in one hand but feeling heavier with every step. The morning light revealed details I'd missed before—the careful way Luka tracked my movements, not like a predator watching prey, but like someone monitoring something precious for signs of damage.
“Sit,” he said, but his voice was gentler than it had been upstairs, almost careful. “Please.”
The added word surprised me. I wanted to argue, to demand explanations or negotiations, but something in his tone made me sink into the chair across from him. Not submission, exactly, but recognition that maybe this conversation would be different.
“What now?” I asked, dropping the collar onto the white tablecloth between us where it looked like a black snake coiled among fine china.
Luka's eyes fixed on the leather, and I could see something complex stirring in those green depths—not satisfaction, but something that looked almost like regret. When he spoke, his voice carried weight that had nothing to do with authority.
“Now we figure out how to make this work,” he said quietly. “How to keep you safe without destroying what makes you... you.”