Page 34 of Shadow Waltz
LUKA
Dust motes danced in the afternoon light, caught between me and the wall of monitors showing every corner of my empire. Each screen displayed a different aspect of my operation—financial flows, security feeds, intelligence reports from assets scattered across three continents. But today, the familiar ritual of surveillance felt distant, secondary to other concerns.
Carina entered without knocking.
“The buyers are restless,” she said without preamble, because sugar-coating bad news had never been her style. “Half of them think you've lost your mind over a street kid, and the other half are wondering what makes him so special that you'd break your own rules.”
The black orchid she produced from her jacket had petals dark as dried blood, its stem wrapped in silver ribbon that gleamed like a blade. The flower carried the cloying scent of expensive perfume mixed with something that reminded me of funeral parlors.
“Von Stein's calling card,” Carina continued, setting the flower on my desk where it looked like a funeral arrangement for my reputation. “In our world, that's not a congratulations bouquet.”
I touched the orchid's petals with one finger, feeling their velvet softness that belied the thorns hidden beneath. Helena Von Stein had a talent for messages that cut both ways—beautiful on the surface, deadly underneath. Just like everything else in the world I'd built from blood and calculated violence.
“What's her message?” I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
“She wants a meeting. Tonight. Says she has a proposition regarding your recent acquisition that could benefit both parties.” Carina's tone suggested she found the proposal about as trustworthy as a snake offering directions through a minefield.
Von Stein's interest in Ash was predictable but unwelcome. The German aristocrat collected broken things the way other people collected art, and her appetite for creative cruelty was legendary even in circles where violence was currency. The fact that she'd noticed my purchase meant others were paying attention too.
“Schedule it,” I decided, already calculating how to turn the meeting to my advantage. “But make sure she understands the rules. My territory, my terms, and if she makes any move toward what's mine, she leaves in pieces.”
Before Carina could respond to the implicit threat, soft footsteps announced Ash's arrival. He appeared in the doorway like something conjured from shadow and defiance—leather collar visible at his throat, chin raised in challenge that somehow made the submission more potent. The sight of him wearing my mark sent something dark and possessive surging through my veins.
“Close the door,” I instructed, my voice carrying just enough edge to make the command feel like inevitability wrapped in authority.
Carina's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly as she took in the scene—Ash's collar, my suddenly focused attention, the way the air itself seemed to thicken with unspoken implications. She'd seen me negotiate million-dollar deals and orchestrate the deaths of rival kingpins, but this felt different. More personal. More dangerous.
“I'll leave you to your business,” she said diplomatically, moving toward the exit with the careful neutrality of someone who'd witnessed too many powerful men make fatal mistakes in the name of desire.
The door closed with a soft click that sounded like the seal on a private world, leaving me alone with my most expensive acquisition. Ash stood in the center of my office with the wary grace of a predator accepting temporary truce, every muscle coiled for flight despite the collar that marked him as mine.
“You're still wearing it,” I observed, my voice carrying satisfaction I couldn't quite hide. The leather caught the afternoon light, and something deep in my chest settled at the sight—a possessiveness that went beyond logic or strategy.
“Didn't have much of a choice,” Ash replied, but there was less venom in it than I'd expected. More resignation than rage, as if he'd spent the morning processing the reality of his situation and found a way to make peace with it.
“There's always a choice,” I said, stopping directly in front of him. But as I studied his face in the golden light—the shadows under his eyes, the careful way he held himself—something twisted in my chest. Not victory, but concern. “Are you sleeping?”
The question surprised us both. It wasn't strategic, wasn't part of any plan. It was genuine worry for someone I barely knew but somehow couldn't stop thinking about.
“Some,” Ash said, wariness flickering across his features at my unexpected softness.
I found myself wanting to smooth away those shadows, to offer comfort I'd never given anyone. The impulse was foreign, dangerous, but I couldn't shake it. In fifteen years of acquiring assets, I'd never once cared whether they were resting well.
“How far does this go?” he asked finally, and I could hear the real question underneath—how much of himself would I demand?
“I don't know,” I admitted, the honesty catching me off guard. “I've never wanted to find out with anyone before.”
The admission hung between us, revealing more than I'd intended. I'd bought him on instinct—something about the way he'd refused to break under those auction lights had reached into my chest and squeezed. My instincts had never steered me wrong in business, but this felt different. This felt personal.
I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn't name. “I look at you and see...” I paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound like weakness. “Potential. Not just for what you could do for me, but what you could become.”
“What kind of potential?” Ash asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in his voice.
“The kind that makes me want to tear down anyone who's ever hurt you,” I said quietly, then caught myself. The protective rage that flared whenever I thought about his previous owners was unprecedented, illogical. “The kind that makes me forget every rule I've ever made about keeping business separate from...”
“From what?”
“From caring,” I finished, the word tasting foreign on my tongue.