Page 147 of Shadow Waltz

I took it, stunned, and for a moment I couldn’t speak. I tucked the flower behind my ear, and he grinned, shaking his head.

“Ridiculous,” I teased.

“Only for you,” he whispered again, softer this time, and I realized I’d never get tired of hearing it.

When we reached the penthouse, dusk was falling, painting the windows with gold and shadow. Luka dropped the keys on the counter, kicked off his shoes, and pulled me into his arms.

“Thank you,” he said, lips brushing my forehead.

“For what?”

“For letting me try. For staying. For choosing me.”

My arms slid around his waist, holding tight. “You saved me,” I said. “In every way that counts.”

He pressed his face into my hair, breath shaky. “Promise me you’ll let me do this again. A real date. A hundred more.”

I nodded, smiling against his skin. “I promise. As long as it’s with you.”

And in that moment, in the quiet heart of the city, it felt like everything that had been broken was finally—miraculously—coming back together.

Some love stories are built from ruin, patched together with hope and stubbornness and the kind of reckless tenderness that only comes after surviving the impossible. Ours was one of those.

And for the first time, it felt like we truly deserved it.

The city glowedbeneath a thin haze, headlights blurring into rivers of gold as Luka and I walked side by side. The air felt alive, pulsing with a thousand lives, but tonight belonged to just us. It was our third day outside hiding, the world somehow softer, the air lighter now that I was mostly healed. No more limping. No more constant panic. Just Luka, me, and the hush that fell whenever two people knew they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

He’d surprised me earlier—a dinner at a tiny rooftop place overlooking the skyline, where candlelight flickered between us and our laughter rose free and shameless into the night. He was different here, less a kingpin than a man who loved to watch me taste new food, who let his hand linger over mine, not to claim but to steady. We talked about nothing and everything. Favoritebooks. Secret cravings. What color we thought the city would be if it had a heart.

“I think it’d be blue,” Luka said, tracing the rim of his glass. “Hopeful, restless. Blue like this—” He reached out, brushing my jaw, and I leaned into the warmth.

“Or green,” I teased, “for envy and all the second chances it keeps stealing.”

He grinned, and for a moment I saw the boy he’d been before the world had hardened his jaw and painted his knuckles with other people’s blood.

It was late when we left, full of good food and a bottle of wine shared between us. We strolled through narrow streets, his fingers curled through mine, occasionally swinging our hands like kids who didn’t know the meaning of danger. I felt almost ordinary, and the feeling was a kind of ache—yearning for this to last, always.

We ended up at a small park—a patch of grass and wildflowers pressed between glass towers, nearly empty in the quiet hours. Luka sat down on a bench, tugging me with him, pulling me until I was wedged at his side, shoulder to shoulder. He glanced up at the sky, searching for stars he knew were drowned by city light.

“You used to hate silence,” he said. “You’d fill every space with words, or music, or that old radio you kept by the bed.”

I smiled. “Now I think I just hated being alone with myself.”

He turned, tracing his thumb along my wrist. “Not alone anymore.”

I let the silence stretch, feeling him breathe, feeling my own breath match his. The collar I wore—diamond, familiar, worn—pressed against my throat, grounding me. It was a symbol of everything we’d survived, but tonight, it felt almost like armor I was ready to take off.

Luka’s phone buzzed—a message, which he silenced without even looking. For once, no emergencies. Just this. Just us.

He turned toward me, nerves flickering in his eyes, an uncertainty that made my heart thud harder. “Ash, come with me,” he said, rising and offering his hand.

We walked in companionable silence, weaving through city blocks until we reached a quiet street lined with boutique shops, most shuttered for the night. But one storefront glowed soft gold from inside—no sign, just an old lamp illuminating velvet displays in the window.

Luka unlocked the door with a key he produced from his pocket. I blinked, surprised, and he smiled, a little sheepish. “I called in a favor. Don’t ask.”

Inside, the space was hushed and soft, the walls lined with velvet cases. Luka didn’t bother with the displays. Instead, he strode to the counter and produced a small box, pale wood with a blue satin ribbon.

My throat went dry. “What is this?”