Page 64 of Shadow Waltz

Maksim bent down and kissed my lips. “You’re a good one, Ash. You took us all.”

Yuri slapped my thigh, grinning. “Maybe next time, we see how many more you can handle.”

Dmitri stroked my cheek, eyes dark. “Rest now. You did well.”

The three of them dressed, sharing low, satisfied laughter, the room still thick with the scent of sex. When they left, closing the door behind them, the silence rang in my ears, broken only by my ragged breathing and the faint hum of the camera’s lens adjusting.

I lay there, spent and sticky, every inch of me aching and alive.

The door opened again—soft this time, no fanfare, just the quiet power that always preceded him. Luka stepped into the room, eyes sweeping over the chaos, the ruined sheets, my naked, filthy body sprawled in the aftermath.

He paused, taking in the marks, the mess, the way I glared up at him, too exhausted for fear.

“Well?” Luka asked. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

I let my lip curl in defiance, too tired and too proud to give him anything soft. “Go fuck yourself.”

He only smiled, dark and satisfied. “Maybe next time you’ll say please.”

And I knew the games were just beginning.

12

VEINS OF FIRE

LUKA

Imoved through my domain with the fluid authority of someone who'd never questioned his right to power, but my attention kept fragmenting around the young man who wore my collar like it belonged there.

Ash stood by the window, studying the city below, and I found myself memorizing the line of his throat where black leather met pale skin, the way afternoon light caught the sharp angles of his face. For years, power had been measured in money and fear and the ability to make problems disappear. But now I understood that real power was being chosen by someone who had every reason to run.

The memory of the surveillance footage from the past nights burned in my mind like a brand. I’d watched Troy take him two nights ago—watched Ash arch and writhe under my lieutenant’s skilled hands, Troy coaxing desperate sounds from his throat until Ash shattered with someone else’s name on his lips. Instead of jealousy, I’d felt something darker and infinitely more dangerous: arousal, possession, the sick satisfaction oforchestrating every aspect of his pleasure, even when I wasn’t the one providing it.

Now, as I watched him, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to lock him away from the world or push him even further, just to see how far he’d go. Real power, I realized, wasn’t just control—it was the choice he kept making, over and over, to stay.

I’d stroked myself to the rhythm of Troy’s thrusts, to the sound of Ash’s gasps echoing through the security system, to the sight of my collar around his throat while another man claimed his body. The power in that moment had been intoxicating—not just owning him, but controlling who touched him and how, being the architect of his submission even when I wasn’t in the room.

But last night had been another level. Watching Dmitri and his friends take him apart, turning his suite into a stage, Ash messy and shining, begging for more while three men used him and filled him up. He’d looked into the camera then, too—mouth stuffed, hole leaking, every inch of him slick and marked—performing for me with a kind of shameless, desperate defiance that made my cock ache.

My cock twitched at the memory, at the way Ash had met my gaze through the lens, as if he knew exactly who was watching. Even with other men inside him, even while he surrendered, he was still thinking of me—still proving that he belonged to me, and that every act of submission, every filthy moment, ultimately circled back to my hands. The knowledge had sent me over the edge harder than I’d come in years.

“You’re staring,” Ash said, his voice low, eyes locked on the city outside. There was less venom in it tonight. No welcome, but not open war either—just that worn, hungry edge of someone who never quite lets himself rest. The last week had stripped away some of his anger, worn it down to sullen sparks, but the air was still taut with what neither of us would name.

I let the moment breathe, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way the lights painted shifting patterns on his skin. He stood barefoot in front of the window, all lean muscle and bruised defiance, a figure carved by hunger and survival. The collar—mycollar—sat black and clean at his throat, as familiar now as his stubbornness.

“I’m appreciating,” I said, closing the gap between us by a few careful steps. I kept my voice calm, my expression blank as marble. A man in my business didn’t show softness, not even to the people he let inside his penthouse. Especially not to the ones he wasn’t sure he could trust.

Ash didn’t turn around. “Appreciating what, exactly?” There was challenge in the question, but it sounded tired. “That I haven’t tried to kill you in your sleep?”

I smirked, letting a fraction of amusement show. “That would have been unwise. You’d be dead before you reached the door.”

He turned at that, lips pressed into a line, ice-blue eyes searching mine for weakness he wouldn’t find. But there was something else now—hesitation, or maybe curiosity. He was reading me the way I read the men I did business with, weighing every word for threat or promise.

He crossed his arms, the collar shifting. “You want honesty? You gave me two choices: wear this or die. I still haven’t forgotten.”

My jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat. “It was the truth. I don’t do charity cases.”

Ash laughed—harsh, bitter. “Yeah, I got that. You’re not the rescuing type.”