Some months later….
The setting sun paints the horizon in stripes of amber and rose, casting a golden glow across our weathered porch.
I curl my legs beneath me in the Adirondack chair, listening to the rhythm of waves against the shore.
The breeze carries the scent of salt and late summer flowers from my garden.
Perfect evening doesn’t begin to describe it.
Luka hands me a glass of wine, his fingers lingering against mine. He settles into the chair beside me, propping his feet on the railing. The champagne bottle chills in a bucket between us.
“To my favorite historian,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “Columbia University Press. Not bad.”
“I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “I still can’t believe they accepted my proposal. A whole series about Anastasia Laskarina.”
“I can,” Luka says with that quiet confidence that still makes my heart skip. “They’d be idiots not to.”
The letter arrived this morning – my book proposal accepted, with a contract for two more volumes if the first performs well. I’ve been floating all day, caught between disbelief and elation.
“They loved the angle about female historians being erased from history,” I tell him, still processing it myself. “And the teen audience focus.”
Luka stretches, that predatory grace never leaving him even in repose. “I may have been wrong about your princess,” he admits grudgingly.
I gasp in mock shock. “The great Luka Zogaj, admitting he was wrong? Should I call the papers?”
He narrows his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “Maybe she wasn’t completely obsessed with barbarian invaders.”
“Thank you,” I say primly. “Her interests were varied and scholarly.”
“Unlike someone I know,” he says, voice dropping low as he leans closer, “who definitely has a barbarian obsession.” His hand slides up my thigh.
I swat him away, laughing. “Behave. We have a beautiful sunset to enjoy.”
His dark eyes never leave my face. “You still play hard to get, even when we’re alone in paradise.”
I give him a witchy glance and take another sip.
The porch swing creaks as the breeze pushes it. Our little cottage isn’t large or fancy, but it’s ours – our weekend escape from the city. The main house is just down the beach, but we’ve made this little guest cottage our own.
“Did Storm call today?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Luka smirks. “Business talk? During our celebration?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“Things are going smoothly,” he says after a moment. “Storm says the Bratva is respecting our new boundaries. The Pruszków will fall into line.”
Or else, I think.
What would my professors think if they knew I could now identify most Eastern European criminal syndicates by name? Or that I’ve developed opinions on territorial expansion strategies?
“That’s good,” I say. “Less headaches for you. ”
“Mmm,” he agrees.
The business is thriving under Luka’s leadership, and he’s forged stronger alliances with the other families. The Ghost Hound Clan has never been more powerful or stable.
Not that I approve of criminal activities. But Luka is who he is, and I’ve made my peace with it. We have boundaries – things I don’t ask about, things he doesn’t bring home. It works for us.
I get up and cross to the weathered trunk we use as a coffee table, lifting the lid.
“What are you doing?” Luka asks.
I pull out my harmonica, holding it up with a flourish. His eyes light up like I’ve produced a golden orb or something.
“Really?” he asks, sitting forward.
I grin. His fascination with my harmonica skill has been endlessly amusing.
I’m always telling him that harmonica playing is something I do for myself and nobody else—completely true—but things have shifted so much in the last year.
Luka isn’t somebody else anymore. It’s us against the world, and I wanna share everything with him.
“Consider it part of the celebration.”
I take a deep breath. I haven’t played for ages, what with nailing my master’s degree and finding this place and finishing up the book. And of course, Luka.
But I bring the harmonica to my lips and start to play.
He watches with intensity.
It’s nothing fancy – just an Irish folk melody I’ve always loved, and it has the bonus of being easy to play. Even so, I screw up a few notes, but then I get over it and the notes sound out against the crashing waves.
When I finish, Luka is watching me with that awestruck expression that I love.
“More,” he says simply.
I play another tune, this one livelier. Halfway through, I notice movement on the beach – two figures walking toward our cottage, silhouetted against the dimming sky.
I stop playing. “We have company.”
Luka follows my gaze, relaxing when he recognizes them. “Mary and Orton.”
My sister and Luka’s right-hand man. The unlikely couple that somehow makes perfect sense.
They climb the steps to our porch. Mary’s curls wild from the ocean breeze, Orton’s perpetual intensity softened by her presence.
“Don’t stop on our account,” Mary says, gesturing to the harmonica. “We heard you all the way from the beach.”
“You’re early,” Luka growls.
I give Luka a look. “You’re perfectly on time.”
Mary takes a glass from Luka with a smile. “We sold out pretty early, so we hopped on cleanup right away. Here’s to officially being on vacation for the next week while they install the new ovens.”
“And if they go over schedule, we will have words,” Orton growls.
Mary’s brunch bistro, The Flying Frittata, has become a local sensation, and now she’s expanding into the space next door.
“Congratulations on the book deal,” Orton says to me. “Mary told me the news.”
“Thank you! I’m still processing it.”
We settle into our chairs, the conversation flowing easily as twilight deepens. Stars begin to appear, scattered diamonds against dark velvet. The champagne makes an appearance, glasses clinked all around.
Mary and I take our glasses down the steps to the beach and wade into the water, the waves licking at our ankles as we plan our bistro-vacay craft night: embroidery thread, a big couch, cheesy popcorn, red licorice, and Hallmark movies.
“I downloaded a really cute squirrel pattern off Etsy,” Mary says. “He has this little flower crown? So sweet. And I found this fox curled up in a ball of grass. Oh—and there were some great bluebird ones, too. I’ll send you the link.”
“No, I’ve been designing my own pattern,” I say. “It’s a coat of arms. For me and Luka.”
Mary stops mid-step. “A coat of arms.”
“Yeah. Medieval style. I’m doing a shield divided into quadrants—Arianiti’s eagle in one, a feather quill over parchment in another, a dagger in the third, and maybe the harmonica or a crown in the last. Symbols of us.
I want to embroider it on linen and make a fabric tapestry for our reading nook.
Maybe even do a couple of matching dish towels. ”
Mary snorts. “A coat of arms for you and Luka. Yeah, you’re definitely not a nerd.”
“It’s gonna be the best,” I say, already picturing the whole thing in gold, crimson, and midnight thread.
“You forgot to add circle cookies,” Mary says. “Don’t you want that on your coat of arms?”
I grin. “I’ll put circle cookies on our coat of arms when you start baking them in your bistro.”
“Not likely,” Mary says.
The guys are talking intently up on the porch.
I can’t hear them, but I know Luka so well now that I can read his posture—shoulders just slightly tense.
If we were closer, I’d see the tight line in his jaw.
He doesn’t like whatever Orton is telling him.
If I had to guess, I’d say it’s something about Lazarus, the psychotic killer they’ve been chasing halfway across the world.
The coffee farm. The monastery. So many dead ends it’s starting to feel like folklore.
“Hey, losers!” Mary calls out, holding up her empty glass. “Come on, the water’s perfect—and I need a refill!”
That’s when I see it. The ring.
I grab her hand. “What? Mary, what is this? Oh my God, Mary!”
“I was wondering when you’d notice. Some scholar you are. ”
“Mary!” I pull her into a hug. “I’m so happy for you. You guys are perfect. When?”
She holds it out to glitter in the moonlight. “Tonight.”
“About three hours ago,” Orton adds, strolling toward us, looking more pleased than I’ve ever seen him. “On the beach.”
More champagne is poured. More toasts are made right there at the water’s edge. I’m so happy for her. Of course, I tease her a little for always having to do everything first. First sister to do a cartwheel. First to graduate high school. Now first to get married.
“Maybe it’s time to step up, mister!” Mary says to Luka, waggling her brows.
“Buzz off,” I laugh.
Luka drapes an arm over my shoulder. “We’ve got our own timeline.”
“Own timeline, huh?” Mary says.
“That’s right,” I say. “Some of us don’t follow fireflies into the woods without a flashlight.”
“Okay, okay,” Mary says.
“Some of us don’t get matching tattoos with people we just met at sunrise yoga and declare ourselves best friends for life.”
Mary laughs. “In my defense, I am still friends with her.”
“And some of us don’t jump off the garage roof with a pillowcase for a parachute.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Orton raises his hands in mock surrender. “Am I the pillowcase in this scenario?”
Mary plants a kiss on his cheek. “You’re no pillowcase, baby.”
In truth, Luka and I have talked about the future together. A lot. But we both want to focus on the big things we’re building—things most people can’t see yet.
And yeah, we’re a little less impulsive than Mary and Orton. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s just us.
Eventually, we wander back up toward the porch as the conversation shifts to wedding plans and potential dates, and Lazarus and all his fuckery gets pushed aside—for now .
Later, as Mary and Orton head back down the beach toward their own cottage, Luka wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder as we watch them go.
“She’s happy,” I say softly. “Really happy.”
“So am I,” he says.
I lean back against him, solid and warm. I don’t even need to answer. We get each other.
We watch the waves shimmer under starlight, the future stretching out before us unbounded. My barbaric king and me, writing our own improbable story one day at a time.
“Play me one more song,” Luka whispers.
“Another?”
“Do it,” he growls, lips brushing my skin, “or I’ll make you scream a different kind of tune.”
I smirk. “With an offer like that, I might never play again.”
He leans closer, his voice dark and dangerous. “Careful, little historian. You’re tempting fate.”
I lift the harmonica and begin to play.
Thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed your time with Luka and Edie as much as I did !
But wait! Where in the world is Lazarus?
What devious things is that madman up to now?
Lazarus’s book comes out in 2026!
Don’t miss it!
Lazarus !!!!!! *
(*Lazarus isn’t really the title. The title is secret right now!!)