36. Katarina
KATARINA
T he smell of garlic and herbs drifts from the kitchen as I pad barefoot down the hallway. After everything that's happened—the rescue, the gunfight, Alexi's injury—I expected Erik to be in full tactical mode tonight. Instead, he announced he'd cook dinner for me.
Just the two of us.
I find him standing at the stove, his broad shoulders tense beneath a simple black T-shirt. He's traded his tactical gear for jeans that hug his muscled thighs, and somehow, the casual clothes make him seem more dangerous, not less.
“Smells incredible in here.”
He jumps at my voice, nearly dropping the wooden spoon he's using to stir something that looks and smells like bolognaise.
“Jesus, Katarina. You're quiet.”
“Says the man who could probably sneak up on a cat.” I move closer, noting the way his jaw ticks with tension. “What's wrong? You seem...”
“Seem what?”
“Off. Nervous.” I study his profile, confused by the rigid set of his shoulders.
He doesn't answer, just continues stirring. On the counter beside him, I notice a bottle of expensive wine breathing, sitting next to two crystal glasses waiting to be filled.
The dining room reveals even more surprises. Erik has actually set the table—cloth napkins, real silverware, candles flickering in tall holders that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Classical music plays softly from hidden speakers.
“Wow.” I stop in the doorway. “This is...”
“What?” His voice carries a sharp edge.
“Romantic.” A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Erik Ivanov, did you just create the most romantic dinner I've ever seen?”
His face darkens. “It's just food.”
“Just food?” I gesture at the candles, the wine, the flowers he's somehow procured and arranged in a crystal vase. “This looks like something out of a magazine. What's gotten into you?”
He sets down the serving spoon with more force than necessary. “Nothing's gotten into me.”
But his hands shake as he pours the wine, and there's something almost desperate in the way he avoids my gaze. This man, who has faced down my father's armed guards without breaking a sweat, appears to be nervous about having dinner with me.
“Erik.” I touch his arm. “Talk to me. What's really going on?”
He freezes under my touch, his whole body going rigid like he's bracing for impact.
“Nothing.” The word comes out flat, final.
But everything about his movements screams otherwise. He carries the spaghetti and bolognaise to the table. The serving spoon doesn't clink against the bowl. His breathing is too even, too regulated.
“Katarina.” He pulls out my chair, and I catch the slight tremor in his voice. “Sit.”
I don't move. “Erik?—”
“Please.” The word cracks something in his composure. “Just... sit.”
The atmosphere presses down between us, heavy and electric. Every candle flame seems to flicker in time with his pulse at his throat. The classical music that should evoke a romantic feeling now sounds ominous, building toward something I can't identify.
I sink into the chair he's holding, and his hands brush my shoulders as he pushes it forward. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long, his fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my shirt before he jerks away.
He serves the food in absolute silence. The wine catches the candlelight as he tops off my glass, and I notice his knuckles are white where he grips the bottle.
“This looks amazing,” I try, desperate to break whatever tension has settled over us.
He nods once and takes his own seat across from me with his back to the wall—always watching the exits, even here in his own compound.
The food is incredible. Rich, creamy, with just the right bite of wine and herbs. But Erik barely touches his plate. He watches me eat with an intensity that makes my skin prickle like he's memorizing every movement of my fork to my mouth.
“You're not eating.”
“I'm fine.”
“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 whole setup. 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.”
I stare at him, at the ring, at the way his knuckles have gone white where he grips the box.
“I know I'm not romantic.” His voice is rough and uncertain in a way I've never heard from him before. “I'm not good at pretty words or grand gestures. I had to google how to propose, for Christ's sake.”
A laugh chokes out of me—half shock, half hysteria.
“But I'll look after you.” The words pour out faster now like he's afraid I'll stop him.
“I'll protect you, cherish you for the rest of my life.
I know people might say this is about the war, about finding a way out of the mess with your father, but that's not—” He stops, jaw working.
“I want you, Katarina. Not because you're convenient or strategic or any of that shit. I want you forever.”
The emerald catches the light. This man who never shows weakness, who controls every emotion with military precision, is shaking as he waits for my answer.
“I love you,” he says quietly, and the simple words carry more weight than any elaborate speech could. “Will you marry me?”
The emerald blurs as tears spring to my eyes. Erik's face goes pale, misreading my reaction completely.
“Katarina—”
“Yes.”
The word falls between us like a stone dropped in still water. Erik blinks, his grip on the ring box tightening.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I'll marry you.” The words taste like freedom on my tongue, which should be impossible given everything they represent.
I'm saying yes to marrying a criminal. A man whose hands are stained with the same kind of violence I spent years trying to escape. A man whose business dealings aren't so different from my father's—except in all the ways that matter.
Erik would never sell me. Would never treat me like property to be bartered for alliances or power. When he looks at me, he sees Katarina—not an asset, not a pawn, not a pretty decoration for someone else's empire.
My father kidnapped my freedom before I even knew I had it, wrapping my cage in silk and calling it protection. Erik kidnapped my body but somehow freed my soul.
“You're sure?” His voice cracks on the question. “Because if this is about stopping the war?—”
“Fuck the war.” The vehemence in my voice surprises us both. “I mean, yes, if our marriage ends the bloodshed, that's wonderful. But Erik...” I slide from my chair to kneel beside him on the hardwood floor. “I'd marry you if it started ten more wars.”
He searches my face like he's looking for cracks in my resolve. “Your father will never accept this. The Petrovs?—”
“Let them come.” The words ring with conviction. When did I become this person? This woman who'd choose love over safety, passion over peace? “I'm tired of other people deciding my fate. I choose you.”
Erik's hands shake as he slides the ring onto my finger. The emerald catches the candlelight, throwing green fire across the walls.
“I love you,” I whisper.
He kisses me then, soft and reverent like he's sealing a sacred vow. When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Mrs. Ivanov,” he murmurs, testing the words.
“Not yet.” I smile through my tears. “But soon.”
The candles flicker around us, and for the first time in my life, I'm exactly where I belong.