Page 40 of Shadow Waltz
A flash of annoyance crossed his face, but he masked it quickly, regaining his composure. “Everyone belongs to someone, Ash. That’s the first lesson in my world.”
I could feel Luka behind the glass—imagined, maybe, but no less real. Did he feel guilty, or satisfied, or just curious? Was this what he wanted, to see how far I’d bend before I broke?
Mehta rose, his erection unmistakable, the fabric of his suit drawn tight across his hips. He walked behind my chair, one hand brushing the back of my neck—light, almost affectionate, but sharp with ownership.
He leaned down, mouth by my ear, voice a velvet threat. “Think about my offer. Think about what it would feel like to be truly free. Not just traded from one owner to the next.”
His breath stirred the hair at my nape. “Or maybe you like being watched. Is that it? Does Luka get off on seeing you parade for other men?”
I said nothing. My jaw ached from clenching it, my fingernails digging crescents into my palm. I stared straight ahead, counting the seconds until I could escape, until the mask would be safe to drop.
His fingers slid down the line of my spine, pausing at the small of my back. “You can be honest with me, Ash. I value honesty above all.”
I pictured the knife Luka had given me, still heavy inside my jacket. I wondered, for a moment, what would happen if I used it. If I pressed it to Mehta’s throat and called Luka’s bluff, shattered this game into pieces.
Instead, I let my eyes meet Mehta’s in the mirrored glass, making sure he—and Luka—could see exactly how much I loathed both the offer and the man making it.
Mehta straightened, a satisfied smile curling his lips. “You’re not as easy to rattle as I’d hoped. That’s good. You’ll need that spine if you’re ever to survive in my world.”
He moved back in front of me, standing just close enough for me to smell the dark spice of his cologne, to see the hunger in his eyes. “But everyone has a price, Ash. You’ll tell me yours soon enough.”
He adjusted himself, making sure I saw the shape beneath his suit. A pointed, possessive gesture. A claim and a warning.
The silence in the room was unbearable, heavy with sweat and threat and the knowledge that this was just the beginning.
I let the quiet thicken, holding myself perfectly still, pulse pounding in my ears. For a moment, I could hear only my own breathing and the subtle mechanical tick of the security system hidden somewhere in the wall. The aftertaste of Mehta’s cologne, spicy and dark, clung to my skin like a bruise.
Was this what Luka wanted? To see how far I’d bend, how well I could fake pleasure or submission? Or was it a warning—see how easily I could be broken, how quickly another man could take everything he’d claimed for himself? My mind cycled through possibilities, running tactical calculations behind the flat expression I’d learned to wear.
Mehta’s phone vibrated, cutting through the clink of ice and low murmur of conversation. He glanced at the screen, the unreadable set of his mouth hardening by a degree. Without a word to me, he stepped aside, turning his back to the room. The conversation shifted languages, rapid-fire Hindi threaded with English—fragments I recognized, most I didn’t.
The air changed. The guards by the windows straightened, attention sharpening as if an alarm had gone off that only they could hear. I caught a flash of concern on the older one’s face, quickly masked. The muscle moved a step closer, posture tighter, his eyes now fixed on Mehta.
I risked a glance toward the mirror—the one every instinct told me was two-way. Luka’s ghost stared back at me, a faint silhouette behind the glare of chandelier light. For a split second,as Mehta poured himself a fresh drink and turned away, our eyes met through the glass. Luka’s face was a mask, unreadable, but his head dipped—a barely-there nod. Approval, permission, or a command to keep going? I didn’t know. The ambiguity burned.
Mehta was distracted, talking quietly on his phone in a language I half-understood. That gave me a chance to scan the room. There were more people here than I’d realized at first glance. In the far corner, by the windows, two men stood with military posture, their suits tailored but a little too bulky around the chest and hips—concealed weapons, for sure. Their skin was brown, hair black and close-cropped, eyes sharp and always moving. They watched Mehta, then flicked quick appraisals over me, as if calculating what I was worth as a threat. One of them carried himself with the subtle confidence of a man used to giving orders; the other moved more like muscle, fingers twitching against his thigh.
Near the door, a third figure lingered—lighter-skinned, with sharp features and a hawk’s gaze, his stance rigid and formal. He never let his attention drift far from Mehta, but his gaze cut to me once, cold and assessing, as if he were already cataloguing weaknesses. No one in this room was here by accident. I was surrounded, every escape route mapped and blocked before I’d even entered.
The walls felt closer now, the silk and velvet a trap instead of a luxury.
I straightened in my chair, rolling my shoulders back, letting my posture shift from wary prey to something closer to an equal. Mehta ended his call, pocketing his phone, and fixed his gaze on me again. That smile—that slow, predatory stretch of lips—returned as he crossed the room, drink in hand.
“You don’t seem as nervous as I expected,” he said, voice low, every word a deliberate caress. “Most men in your positionwould be trembling by now. Is it because you know Luka’s watching?”
I let a slow, ironic smile curl at the corner of my mouth. “It’s not my first time being put on display.”
He set the glass on the table with a click, then trailed his fingers along the polished wood, drawing closer until he stood over me again. The heat of him radiated between us, the evidence of his arousal still obvious beneath the line of his tailored suit.
“You’re very good at pretending,” he murmured, his hand ghosting over my shoulder before dropping away. “But pretending can only take you so far. Eventually, everyone’s mask slips.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I replied, letting my voice drop, matching his cadence. “Maybe you want to see what’s under the mask.”
He let out a slow breath, nostrils flaring, eyes alight with challenge and anticipation. “I do.”
I forced myself to lean back, crossing one ankle over my knee, posture languid and open—a calculated show of ease. “And what if there’s nothing underneath worth seeing?”
Mehta crouched beside me, one knee on the carpet, his face suddenly close—so close I could see the silver at his temples, the fine lines at the corners of his mouth. His hand settled on the armrest, fingers splayed, thumb brushing against my sleeve.