Page 41 of Shadow Waltz
“Oh, I doubt that very much.” His words brushed over my cheek, hot and possessive. “I’ve watched you, Ash. The way you handle yourself. The way you look at Luka—not like a servant, but like a man with teeth. I admire that.”
His thumb traced slow circles against my wrist, sending sparks up my arm, each touch a deliberate reminder of what he could do if I let him. My body responded with a sick surge of adrenaline, every muscle coiled and burning.
I forced a slow exhale, letting my eyes drift to the guards. One of them watched us openly now, his mouth set in a grim line. Did he care what happened, or was he just waiting for an order?
“You don’t seem like a man who likes to wait,” I said softly, glancing back at Mehta.
He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Patience is its own pleasure, sometimes. But you’re right—I prefer results.”
His hand drifted higher, almost to my collarbone, fingers brushing the barest edge of skin. I kept my face neutral, my mind calculating—if I moved now, if I tried to use the knife, would I even make it a step before one of the guards dropped me? Or would Luka intervene?
The thought of Luka—silent, watching, orchestrating—sent a hot wave of humiliation through me. Was I performing for him, too? Or was this the punishment, the lesson I was meant to learn? I let my gaze flicker to the mirror again, trying to catch even a flicker of emotion behind the glass.
Mehta’s touch grew bolder, sliding along the line of my jaw, thumb pressing lightly against my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. The room spun, heavy with cologne and power.
“I could give you everything Luka never will,” he said, voice barely more than a breath. “All you have to do is say yes.”
He pressed forward, so close now I could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his cock brushing my hip as he leaned in. For a wild moment I considered giving in, letting him see what he wanted, just to win the game. But the thought curdled in my chest. I wanted out, wanted clean, wanted Luka to burst in and end it—but I knew better. This was my test.
So I played the part. I let my lips part, just enough to suggest acquiescence, just enough to keep Mehta hooked.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to negotiate,” I whispered, my voice husky. “But what if I want more than just power? What if I want control?”
Mehta’s eyes widened, then darkened, the thrill of the challenge flickering over his face. He moved closer, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Convince me.”
I let my hand slide up his arm, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing against the taut muscle beneath his suit. My touch was steady, confident, nothing like the tremor running through my core. I smiled—wolfish, daring.
“Prove you can keep your promises,” I breathed, “and maybe I’ll let you have what you want.”
He laughed softly, a rumble low in his chest. “Very clever, Ash. I see why Luka values you. You play the game well.”
I let the compliment linger, refusing to break eye contact, matching Mehta’s hunger with a look of my own—a cold calculation beneath the slow burn. My pulse thundered, but my hands were steady as I shifted in my seat, turning toward him fully, letting my knee graze his thigh. I leaned back, loose and unafraid, one arm slung over the chair’s backrest, and let my gaze drop with deliberate intent.
I wanted him to feel it: the change in temperature, the friction, the invitation. But also the warning.
He was used to being the wolf. I was done being the sheep.
“If you’re going to try to buy me, Rajesh,” I said, lowering my voice until it vibrated with threat and promise, “you’d better know the price.” I watched his mouth twitch, just the barest hint of surprise at my use of his first name. A man like Mehta thrived on hierarchy—using it against him was my opening move.
He recovered quickly, eyes glinting with something sharper. “I always pay my debts,” he replied, letting his hand rest lightly on my thigh—testing, pressing. I didn’t flinch.
Instead, I held his gaze, letting my lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. Then, with unhurried care, I reached up and undid the top button of my shirt. I felt, rather than saw, the shift in the room—his attention narrowing to the small, deliberateexposure of skin. I let my fingers linger at the second button, teasing the fabric apart, showing a sliver of collarbone and the slope of my throat.
“You want control,” I murmured, “but you’ll settle for what I let you see.” My voice dropped, each syllable smoky, deliberate. “Isn’t that right?”
He leaned closer, as if pulled in by gravity, his breath fanning over my lips. “Control is a negotiation, Ash. You want it as much as I do.”
“Maybe.” I smiled, slow and lazy, and undid the next button, letting the fabric fall open just enough for him to glimpse the edge of the tattoo at my sternum. “But the difference is, I know exactly what you want.” I dragged my gaze over him, up and down, appraising him like a piece of expensive art—like prey. “And I know how to make you beg for it.”
Mehta’s eyes darkened, the hunger there now edged with something like frustration. He wasn’t used to being outmaneuvered, not in these games. But I didn’t care. I had spent too many nights being evaluated, too many days surviving on someone else’s appetite. Tonight, the hunger was mine to shape.
I slid forward in my seat, letting our knees touch. I placed my hand lightly on his wrist, feeling his pulse flutter beneath the expensive gold of his watch.
“You said you value honesty,” I said, my words low and intimate. “So let’s be honest. You want to fuck me—break me open and find out what Luka keeps locked away. But you won’t. Not unless I let you. And that, Rajesh, is what you really want. Permission.”
The air thickened. He bared his teeth in a grin, but it wasn’t quite a smile. His hand flexed under mine, fingers curling, but he didn’t pull away.
“Careful,” he said, voice rough, “You might start to believe your own lies.”