Page 70 of Shadow Waltz

13

THE CHOICE

ASH

Troy's voice in the next room was low and urgent, discussing security protocols with someone I couldn't identify. The collar around my throat had become as natural as breathing, but today it felt heavier, weighted with the knowledge that in a few hours, I'd be sitting across from Detective Reddick, trying to convince him that my captivity was my choice.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, preparing to defend the man who'd bought me at auction, who'd put a collar around my neck and assigned me a babysitter. But the truth was messier than trauma bonding or whatever psychological term Reddick would use to explain away my feelings. The truth was that I'd finally found somewhere I belonged, even if that somewhere was a golden cage built on violence and control.

I sat up in bed, running my fingers along the leather at my throat, and tried to remember the last time I'd felt safe. Really safe, not just the temporary absence of immediate threat, but the deep certainty that someone was watching over me, that Imattered enough to protect. The answer came easier than I'd expected—never. Not in foster care, not on the streets, not even with Cass, who'd loved me but couldn't shield me from the world's cruelty.

But here, in Luka's domain, wrapped in luxury and surrounded by people who'd kill to keep me safe, I'd found something that felt like home. Twisted, complicated, built on foundations that would horrify most people, but mine nonetheless.

The door opened without a knock, and Troy appeared with that controlled urgency that meant business. He was already dressed in his usual expensive suit, but I could see the subtle bulges that spoke to enough weaponry to start a small war. His eyes scanned the room automatically, cataloguing threats and escape routes even in the safety of Luka's building.

“Morning,” he said, setting a cup of coffee on the nightstand. “Sleep okay?”

There was something different in his voice, a gentleness that hadn't been there before our night together. Not affection exactly, but acknowledgment that we'd crossed a line that changed things between us. He wasn't just my bodyguard anymore—he was someone who'd seen me fall apart and helped put me back together.

“Like a baby,” I lied, accepting the coffee and letting the warmth seep through my fingers. “What's the situation?”

Troy moved to the window, his posture shifting into full professional mode. “Three teams positioned around the hotel, two backup vehicles, and Mason's running interference on all communications. Should be routine, but...” He paused, something flickering in his expression. “The boss is nervous. More nervous than I've seen him in the three years I've been working for him.”

The admission sent heat curling through my chest, because it meant I mattered. Not just as property or investment, but as something worth being nervous about. The thought should have been disturbing, but instead it felt like validation that what was happening between me and Luka was real enough to unsettle a man who'd built his empire on being unshakeable.

“What about you?” I asked, studying Troy's face in the morning light. “You nervous?”

His laugh was short and honest. “Terrified. But not of Reddick.” He turned from the window to look at me directly. “I'm terrified of what happens if you decide you don't want to come back.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard, because it revealed something I hadn't expected—that Troy had his own investment in this outcome. Not just professional obligation, but personal concern for what my choice might mean for all of us.

“I'm coming back,” I said, surprised by how certain I sounded. “Whatever Reddick says, whatever he offers, I'm coming back.”

“Why?” Troy asked, and the question carried weight beyond simple curiosity.

I took a sip of coffee, buying time to formulate an answer that would make sense to someone who hadn't lived through the specific hell that had brought me here. “Because for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong somewhere. Like I'm not just surviving day to day, but actually living.”

Troy nodded slowly, and I could see him processing the implications. “That's what I'll tell him if he asks. That you're not just surviving—you're thriving.”

The word 'thriving' rolled around in my head like a marble in a jar, clicking against all the other words I'd been trying to avoid. Happy. Content. Chosen. They all felt too simple forthe complexity of what I'd found here, but they weren't wrong either.

Before I could respond, the door opened again, and Carina entered with her usual efficient grace. But instead of her typical all-business demeanor, she paused when she saw me sitting on the bed, coffee cup in hand, collar visible at my throat. Something shifted in her expression—not softness exactly, but acknowledgment.

“Mind if I sit?” she asked, gesturing to the chair Troy had vacated.

I nodded, curious about this break in her usual routine. Carina had been professional but distant since my arrival, treating me like a valuable asset rather than a person. But now she settled into the chair with deliberate care, favoring her prosthetic leg in a way that reminded me that everyone in this building carried scars.

“I know what it's like,” she said without preamble, her accent carrying traces of the girl she'd been before this world claimed her. “To have your choices taken away, to be reduced to what you're worth to other people.”

The admission was unexpected, raw enough to make me set down my coffee and really look at her. Carina had always seemed invulnerable, armor-plated against the world's cruelty. But now I could see the person beneath the professional mask—someone who'd survived her own kind of hell and found a way to build something meaningful from the wreckage.

“How old were you?” I asked quietly.

“Fifteen. Living on the streets in San Juan, doing whatever it took to eat.” Her fingers traced the arm of the chair, and I realized she was remembering things she'd probably never talked about. “The men who found me promised safety, steady work, a chance to build something better.”

I didn't need her to elaborate. The promises were always the same, and they always ended the same way—with someone else's hands on your body, someone else's will imposed on your choices, someone else's profit built on your suffering.

“But you got out,” I said.