Page 66 of Shadow Waltz

“Like safety,” he admitted, meeting my eyes. “Twisted, fucked-up safety, but safety nonetheless. And I can either fight that and make myself miserable, or I can accept that this is my reality now.”

I let the silence linger, something warm flickering beneath the surface.

“That's the first honest thing you've said since you got here,” I murmured, unable to hide the approval in my voice. “That intelligence is why you're still alive. Why you're here.”

He met my gaze, less guarded now, and let out a long breath. For the first time, I saw not just resignation, but a tentative curiosity—maybe even the possibility of something better than survival.

I stood, slow and deliberate, letting each step carry a silent question. Ash tracked my movement, his gaze sharp as a blade but no longer full of accusation. I stopped just short of touching him, close enough that the city’s glow spilled over us both, close enough that he could feel the intent in my silence.

After a beat, I let my hand drop to my side, my posture easy but never careless. “When you look at all this—the suite, the view, the security—what do you see, Ash?” My tone was careful, not pressing for a right answer, just seeking what was real. “Does it feel like a fresh start, or just another kind of prison?”

He considered, jaw working, eyes tracking the cityscape and then returning to mine. “Sometimes it feels like both. I guess it depends on whether the door is locked or if I'm just scared to open it.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at the edge of my mouth. “You always see the angles.”

He shrugged, a ghost of a smile flickering back. “It's how I've survived this long.”

We looked at the city carrying on below us. For the first time, the space didn't feel like a battleground. It felt like possibility—uncertain, yes, but no longer hopeless.

“What would you do,” I asked quietly, “if the door wasn't locked? If you could walk out of here right now, no consequences, no one coming after you?”

He hesitated, jaw working. His eyes flicked past me, scanning the room the way I’d seen him study blueprints and body language. Always calculating. Always searching for the angles.

“Depends,” Ash answered finally. “On who’s holding the keys.”

A smile tugged at my lips. Clever. But I wasn’t satisfied yet. I watched him, watched the way he read me, searching for the subtext. He didn’t flinch under scrutiny. He met it, sometimes even leaned in, as if to prove that he belonged in any room I put him in.

“I have a scenario,” I said. “Say you needed to move something—something important—across three borders with every agency in the world watching. What would you do?”

He arched a brow, interested. “That depends. Is it legal?”

“Let’s say it’s… gray.”

He considered, lips pursed in thought. “If it can’t be traced to you, then you split it. Stagger the routes, different couriers. Misdirection. Set up something flashy—make the authorities chase what they think is the real prize, then slip the actual cargo through when everyone’s distracted.”

I studied him, weighing his answer. He watched me right back, sharp, unafraid. “And if you knew someone inside was leaking information?”

“Then you feed them a decoy,” Ash said, tone flat. “Let them think they’ve got you. Then you watch who comes for the bait and burn everyone who bites.”

A pulse of satisfaction rippled through me, dark and deep. “Good,” I said quietly. “Very good.”

He seemed to sense there was more, suspicion flickering in those blue eyes. “Are you testing me?”

“Yes,” I admitted, voice low. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Ash shifted, bracing himself. “What do you want from me, Luka? Really?”

I walked over to the table by the window, opening the laptop already prepped with the data I’d been considering for days. “Sit.” My voice left no room for refusal.

He obeyed, but not out of habit or fear—because he wanted to see what came next.

I slid the laptop in front of him, files already loaded: raw intelligence, encrypted manifests, flagged communications. Every channel, every weakness, every risk—mapped in shifting, brutal clarity. “You said you wanted to know what it means to wear my collar. This is what it means.”

He frowned, scanning the first page. The sheer volume of information would have overwhelmed most, but I watched him focus, breath slowing, shoulders straightening as he read.

“These are—” He broke off, reading faster, eyes darting over the charts, the data feeds, the coded names and locations.

“Threat assessments,” I supplied. “Organizational risk. Blackmail, competitors, law enforcement, internal sabotage. All of it in real time.”