Page 35 of Shadow Waltz

I reached out slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, and traced the edge of his collar with careful fingertips. “I don't understand what you do to me, Ash. I've built my entire life on control, on calculated decisions, on never letting emotion compromise strategy.”

His pulse jumped under my touch, rapid and warm, and I found myself fascinated by the evidence of his life, his humanity. “But the moment I saw you on that stage, something shifted. Like a switch being flipped that I didn't even know existed.”

“That scares you,” Ash observed, and there was understanding in his voice rather than judgment.

“Terrifies me,” I confirmed. “Because wanting something this much has always been the first step toward losing everything.”

I stepped back, needing distance to think clearly, and retrieved the black leather leash from my desk drawer. But when I held it out to him, it wasn't with the cold authority I'd planned.

“I want to explore this,” I said, voice softer than I'd ever used in a business context. “Whatever this is between us. But I need to know you trust me enough to let me lead.”

Ash stared at the leash, then back at my face, reading something there that made his expression shift. “You're not going to hurt me.”

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Never intentionally. And if I ever do accidentally, you tell me immediately.”

Something like hope flickered in his ice-blue eyes as his fingers closed around the leather. The contact sent electricity up both our arms, but this time it felt less like power and more like connection.

“Kneel,” I said, but the command was gentle, almost a request.

When his knees hit the carpet with liquid grace, I felt that possessive satisfaction again, but tempered now with something that might have been reverence. He looked up at me, defiance and curiosity warring in his expression, and I realized that what I wanted wasn't his submission—it was his trust.

“Beautiful,” I murmured, and watched the word affect him differently than before. Not ownership, but appreciation. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“What do I do to you?” he asked quietly.

I clipped the leash that I was holding to his collar carefully, the soft click sounding less like a lock and more like a promise. The leather connected us now, a physical manifestation of something I couldn't quite name. When I wrapped the end around my hand, it wasn't to control him—it was to anchor myself to this moment, to this feeling.

I knelt in front of him, bringing us to eye level, the leash slack between us, close enough to see the silver flecks in his blue eyes. “You make me want to be worthy of you,” I said simply. “And that's something I've never wanted with anyone else.”

The honesty settled between us like a bridge neither of us had expected to find. We stayed like that for several minutes, testing this new dynamic that felt both dangerous and necessary—him kneeling but not diminished, me commanding but not controlling, the leash a connection rather than a restraint.

For the first time in my life, power felt less important than the person choosing to give it to me.

“Do you have a safe word?” The question came from nowhere, catching me off guard in a way that few things could anymore.

I paused, studying his face. Most people in his position didn't think to establish boundaries—they either submitted completelyor fought until they broke. But Ash was different, strategic even in surrender.

“Everyone needs one,” I said carefully. “The question is whether you're smart enough to use it when you need to.”

“What's yours?”

The directness of the question was like a blade sliding between ribs—precise, unexpected, cutting straight to vulnerabilities I'd spent years protecting. Most people never thought to ask what could break someone like me, never considered that I might need protection too.

“Glass,” I said, the word coming from somewhere deeper than I usually allowed people to access.

“Why that word?”

For a moment, the carefully constructed mask slipped, and I was twelve years old again, watching my family's house burn while broken glass from shattered windows reflected the flames like a thousand tiny suns.

“Because everything beautiful breaks,” I said, the admission feeling like removing armor in the middle of a battlefield. “And when it does, it cuts everything it touches.”

The admission cost me, revealing vulnerability that could be weaponized by someone less trustworthy. But Ash didn't attack the exposed weakness; instead, something shifted in his expression, recognition passing between us like a shared secret.

I caught myself before the moment could stretch into something more dangerous, snapping back into the role of authority with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned that emotional exposure was often fatal.

“What about you?” I asked, turning the question back on him. “What word would stop everything?”

Ash was quiet for a moment, considering. “Wings,” he said finally.