Page 94

“Erik.” I set down my fork. “What is this? Why are you acting like?—”

“Like what?” His brown eyes snap to mine, and there's something wild in them, something barely contained.

“Like you're about to deliver bad news. Like this is some kind of...” The realization hits me with ice-cold clarity. “Oh God. This is a goodbye dinner.”

His jaw works, muscles jumping beneath the skin. He doesn't deny it.

The candles flicker. The music swells. And Erik Ivanov sits across from me in perfect, devastating silence.

“Is that what it seems like to you?”

He asks the question quietly, then throws his head back and laughs—a sound so unexpected it makes me jolt. The laugh isn't happy. It's raw, almost bitter, and when he shakes his head, his dark hair falls across his forehead.

“God, I'm so bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“It was meant to be romantic.” He gestures helplessly at the candles, the wine, the perfect dinner spread between us. “I wanted to do something nice for you. After everything that's happened, after I dragged you into this war with your father...”

I arch a brow. “Well, it would be romantic if you weren't acting so weird.”

That earns me another laugh, this one sharper around the edges. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. The movement reveals the tension in his shoulders and the way his T-shirt pulls tight across his chest.

“Weird.” He repeats the word as if he's testing how it sounds. “That's one way to put it.”

“Erik.” I lean forward, studying his face in the candlelight. “What's going on? You've been jumpy since this morning. More than jumpy—you're acting like you've never cooked dinner for someone before.”

His hand freezes in his hair. “I haven't.”

“What?”

“I've never...” He drops his hand to the table, fingers drumming against the white tablecloth. “I've never cooked for anyone. Never done any of this. The candles, the wine, the wholesetup. I watched YouTube videos to learn how to make the ragu sauce.”

This man, who commands respect from hardened criminals and can take apart enemies with surgical precision, learned to cook from YouTube because he wanted to make me dinner.

“YouTube videos?”

“Three of them.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “And I called Sofia twice to ask about wine pairings.”

Heat spreads through my chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine. “You called your sister-in-law for dating advice?”

“Apparently, I'm pathetic.” He picks up his wine glass but doesn't drink; he just turns it between his fingers. “Nikolai would never let me hear the end of it if he knew I was this nervous about dinner.”

“Why are you so nervous about dinner?” I ask.

His brow furrows. “It's not the dinner.” He sets down the wine glass with deliberate care.

“What is it about?”

He shakes his head, then pushes back from the table so abruptly his chair scrapes against the floor. For a moment, I think he's going to pace—his usual response when emotions get too big for his body to contain. Instead, he turns toward me and drops to one knee beside my chair.

“Fuck it.”

His hand disappears into his pocket, and when it emerges, he's holding a small velvet box. The candlelight catches the dark fabric, and my heart stops.

“Erik—”

“Katarina.” He opens the box with hands that aren't quite steady. Inside sits a ring that steals my breath—an emerald surrounded by diamonds. “Marry me.”