Page 49 of Shadow Waltz
“This is Troy,” Luka had said an hour ago, but not before we'd had the conversation I'd been dreading.
It had started when I'd asked about the increased security I'd noticed—more guards in the hallways, additional cameras being installed, the way staff moved with new urgency. Luka had been evasive at first, deflecting with his usual authority, but I'd pushed.
“Something's changed,” I'd said, studying his face in the afternoon light. “You're scared.”
“I'm cautious,” he'd corrected, but there was tension in his jaw that hadn't been there that morning. “Von Stein's rejection didn't go over well. She's been making inquiries, reaching out to people who might be interested in... alternative arrangements.”
“What does that mean?”
Luka had moved to the window then, looking out at the city with eyes that missed nothing. “It means she's not the only one interested in you now. Word is spreading that I paid half a million for something special, and everyone wants to know what makes you worth that much.”
The casual way he'd said it—like I was a stock option everyone wanted to invest in—should have made me angry. Instead, it had sent that familiar dark thrill through my chest. “How many?”
“Three confirmed organizations. Probably more.” He'd turned back to me then, and I'd seen something in his expression I'd never noticed before—genuine worry. “They're not planning to buy you, Ash. They're planning to take you.”
That's when he'd introduced Troy, his voice carrying casual authority I both craved and wanted to rebel against. “He'll be staying close to you from now on. Very close.” The way he'd emphasized those last words, the look that had passed between him and Troy, suggested layers of meaning I wasn't sure I wanted to unpack.
“Is this permanent?” I'd asked, gesturing toward Troy.
“Until the threat passes,” Luka had said, but his tone suggested he wasn't entirely sure when that would be. “Troy's the best at what he does. If anyone tries to take you, they'll have to go through him first.”
“And what does he do, exactly?”
Troy had answered that one himself, voice calm and professional. “I keep valuable things from becoming stolen things.”
“Take care of him, Troy,” Luka had added, and the weight in those words made my pulse quicken. “By any means necessary.”
No negotiation, no discussion about what I wanted or needed. Just another decision made about my life without consulting the person who actually had to live it. The collar around my throat suddenly felt heavier, less like chosen protection and more like a leash getting shorter by the hour.
But I couldn't deny the thrill that had shot through me when Luka said it—the dark satisfaction of being valuable enough to assign a personal army, important enough to protect with lethal force. There was something fundamentally wrong with me, some twisted part of my psyche that got off on being the prize in a deadly game. Maybe it was because violence had been the only constant in my life, the only thing that made me feel real and valuable and worth fighting for.
Now Troy hadn't moved from his position since Luka left, hadn't spoken unless I'd asked him a direct question, and even then his answers came in monosyllables that revealed nothing about the man beneath the professional mask. But I'd learned to read people by their tells—the way he favored his left leg slightly, suggesting an old injury, the scar that disappeared under his collar, the careful way he held his shoulders that spoke to military training and discipline that came from following orders without question.
His eyes were the color of winter storms, gray and cold and constantly scanning for threats. There was something almost predatory about the way he moved, like he'd been programmed for violence and switched to standby mode until needed. But underneath all that professional distance, I caught glimpses of something more dangerous—the way his gaze lingered on me when he thought I wasn't looking, the slight tension in his jaw that had nothing to do with security concerns.
“So what's your story?” I asked, settling onto the edge of the bed with deliberate casualness, as if having a personal assassin assigned to my daily routine was perfectly normal. “Former military? Private security? Or did Luka just find you in an alley somewhere and decide you looked sufficiently intimidating?”
The question hung in the air between us, and I watched for any crack in that professional facade. For a moment, I thought he was going to ignore me completely, but then something shifted in his expression.
Troy's laugh was surprisingly warm, transforming his granite features into something almost human. “Marine Corps, two tours in Afghanistan, private security for diplomats and CEOs who made too many enemies.” His voice carried a slight Southern accent that made him sound less like a weapon and more like someone who might have grown up fixing cars and playing football on Friday nights. “And you? Besides being the boss's newest obsession, what's your story?”
The question hit harder than it should have, because it forced me to confront exactly what I was now—not just Luka's property, but his obsession, his weakness, the thing that could be used against him. The word 'obsession' rolled around in my head like a marble in a jar, clicking against all the other words I'd been trying not to think about. Possession. Fixation.
“Street kid who got in over his head,” I replied, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “Wrong place, wrong time, wrong prince with too much money and a hero complex.”
Troy moved away from the door for the first time since entering, settling into the chair across from me with the easy grace of someone comfortable with violence. The change in his position shifted the entire dynamic of the room, making it feel less like a prison cell and more like a therapy session with an armed counselor.
“Hero complex?” Troy repeated, and there was something in his tone that made me look at him more carefully. “Is that what you think this is?”
He leaned forward slightly, and I could see the way his shirt pulled across his chest, revealing the outline of at least two weapons concealed beneath the expensive fabric. Everything about him screamed professional competence, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he saw more than most people gave him credit for. Something that made my pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
“Because from where I'm standing,” Troy continued, his voice dropping to a register that made my skin feel hypersensitive, “it looks more like a man who's never given a damn about anything suddenly finding something worth burning the world for.”
The observation cut deeper than I expected, because it stripped away the comfortable narrative I'd been telling myself about Luka's motivations. It was easier to believe he was playing hero than to confront the possibility that what was happening between us might be real, might be dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with the criminal empire crumbling around us.
“You think he likes me?” I asked.
Troy studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to decide how much truth I could handle. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute certainty.