Page 145 of Shadow Waltz

“You know, I can walk to the kitchen by myself,” I called, stretching under the soft cashmere blanket on Luka’s couch. The penthouse—so cold and intimidating once—felt transformed, every hard line softened by the absence of danger and the quiet rhythms of a life we’d never believed we’d have.

Luka emerged from the kitchen, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of toast. He wore sweats and a T-shirt for the third day in a row, and his bare feet padded silently across marble floors. The effect would have been domestic, if not for the cautious way he watched every movement I made, as if the world might collapse if he looked away for a second.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he said, as if that settled it. He set the tray down on the coffee table and crouched to tuck the blanket more tightly around my legs. “The doctor said you should rest. I’ll bring whatever you need.”

I arched a brow. “Including toast shaped like hearts? Really?”

He blinked, then flushed, glancing down at the plate where—sure enough—the toast had a notched corner, almost a heartif you squinted. “I burned the other piece,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes.

I smiled—small, involuntary, honest. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He looked up at me, and for a moment his old, dangerous mask slipped back into place, but then it melted under the warmth in my gaze. “Only for you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

Something twisted in my chest. I remembered what it felt like, those first nights here, back when I was a prisoner and every kindness felt like a trick. Now, it was Luka who couldn’t seem to trust happiness, Luka who hovered as if the world might take me away the moment he blinked.

He watched as I took a bite of toast, studying my face for pain. I chewed, savoring the butter and the absurdity, then gestured at the window. “I think I want to see the city. All of it. Not just from behind glass.”

Luka went very still. “You want to go out?”

I nodded. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.”

A shadow flickered across his face—fear, hesitation, maybe guilt. “It’s not safe yet. They’re still looking for us.”

I reached for his hand, surprised at my own boldness. “Then just sit here with me. Tell me something true. Something only I get to know.”

He stilled, and in the silence, I could feel the pulse of something real and terrifying—something that felt like hope.

“I haven’t slept in three days,” he said finally. “I kept watching you breathe. Afraid if I closed my eyes, you’d stop.”

The words hit me with a force I hadn’t expected. I squeezed his fingers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked down at our joined hands, then back up. “Do you know the last time I went on a real date?”

I shook my head, lips quirking. “Do criminal masterminds go on dates? Is there an app for that?”

His laugh was real, and I cherished it. “Not in my line of work. Not ever. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

“Liar,” I teased, “you’d just threaten the maître d’ and buy the restaurant.”

“Maybe,” he said, smile lingering. “But I don’t want that with you. I want… something honest.”

My breath caught. “Honest is scary.”

He nodded. “So let’s try. Just this once. You and me. A real date. No bodyguards, no threats, no running.”

I stared, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with pain. “Are you asking me out, Luka Markovic?”

A flush crept up his neck. “Yes,” he said simply. “I almost lost you. That made me realize I never did this right. Never gave you a choice, never let you see me without all the power and violence. I want to. I want you to know me.”

My throat went tight. “Okay,” I managed. “Yeah. I want that too.”

He squeezed my hand, then rose, purposeful. “Go shower. Wear something you like. I’ll take care of everything.”

He vanished into the kitchen, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like a possession or a prisoner or even a survivor. I felt chosen. Wanted. I let myself imagine what it might be like to have this every day—a future that wasn’t just survival, but living.

I showered, wincing as I stripped off the old bandages. My body was a map of bruises, scars, and one new wound puckered along my ribs, still raw but healing. I dressed slowly, choosing jeans and a soft sweater—casual, comfortable, nothing that would remind me of the roles we’d played for so long.

When I came out, Luka was waiting at the door, holding two black motorcycle helmets. “Don’t worry,” he said, seeing myraised brow. “It’s safe. The bike’s registered to one of my shell companies. No one’s watching the garage.”