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I turn to the window, wondering how much my life has changed in the last few months.
“Kate,” he says. Luka’s voice is a plea, one that I can’t ignore—but I try my hardest. I keep my head turned, watching the cars pass us by.
“Hmm.”
“Look at me. What were you doing?” he asks again. There is no way to deny him when he demands my eyes, and I’m a sucker for his gaze.
“I was hunting a few places to potentially rent. I figured it was time I got out of your hair.”
I goad him, wanting him to respond and tell me the things I want to hear deep down. His jaw works back and forth, and he gazes up front at Ivan, who is exceptionally quiet this evening.
But Luka says nothing. He stares at me for a few seconds, making me uncomfortable, but ultimately turns back to look out the window. The rest of the ride is in utter silence.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent, and we both marched off, not saying a word. Luka went straight to his room, and I went to the fridge for a bottle of water. Ripping the top off, I guzzled until I couldn’t breathe.
From the kitchen island, my view is perfect. The wide expanse of the living room, the pillars reflected in the windows, and even in the darkness of night this place has become familiar, a sense of comfort. I stride to the windows that overlook the Upper East Side and peer down to the city that allowed me to grow and make something of myself. But is the city where I still belong?
* * *
I catapult upright in bed,thrust awake. My heart is racing, and I rub my eyes, trying to focus and make sense of the noise that I heard. My mind is struggling to catch up to reality as it tries to place the sound, but then I hear it again.
A scream breaks through the silence of the penthouse in the middle of the night. My heart continues to race, and my body tightens as another loud scream heightens my senses. I try to piece together what I’m hearing.
Luka. That was Luka’s voice.
My eyes dart to the door, and I throw back my sheets, rushing to it, not caring about being in an oversized shirt. I fly through the door, whipping into the hallway. Sounds of distress come from his room, and I make it to his closed door before hesitating.
I’ve never been in Luka’s room before. What if he doesn’t want me to enter, to see this space? I hear another panicked, “No,” through the door, and I try the handle. It’s unlocked.
When I step into his room, I take a massive breath. This master bedroom is generous, with high ceilings and expansive windows that offer an even more astonishing city view than the living room.
The centerpiece of the bedroom is the king-sized bed, plush linens, and fabrics pushed around or off the bed as Luka lays there on his back, hand clutching his stomach. Another pained noise escapes; it’s sound close now and I see his eyes fluttering. The muscles on his bare-chested abdomen clench, and he is fisting the sheets. I move without thinking around to the side of the bed.
“Luka,” I whisper, not sure if I should try to wake him. He doesn’t respond so I increase my volume.
“Luka.” Still nothing.
My eyes dart around the room, and I see another door to the bathroom and one to the closet. I chew on my lip and then lift one knee on the bed, then the other. I’m kneeling next to him now and taking in his broad shoulders and muscles tense with his dream.
“No, No.” Luka’s muttering stops my perusal, and I finally reach up to cup his cheek.
“Luka, Luka, wake up. It’s a dream.” I rub the back of my hand over his stubbled chin, and I allow my finger to trace that tiny scar on his upper lip. Without his eyes open, all his features are dark. The middle of his forehead is drawn together in tight lines, and I drag my finger down the bridge of his nose, watching as those tight lines relax.
“Luka.”
His head shifts from side to side, but his eyes remain closed. I reach my thumb up and trace his chin.
A hand snaps out to grab my wrist, and I gasp, finding icy blue eyes glued to mine. I go to yank my hand away, but he tightens his hold.
“Luka.” I demand, unsure if he is awake or still dreaming.
He still doesn’t answer. I pull back, trying to leverage myself, but he holds fast to my wrist. My chest is heaving faster now. Finally, he blinks and as he does, his eyes soften on my face. His eyes flit around the room before they land back on me, his nostrils flaring.
“Kate,” he says. His voice is a plea and my breath hitches when he takes my wrist and brings it to his mouth, finding that sensitive soft skin on the underside. He pushes a kiss to my wrist and gently lets my hand go.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You were screaming. I didn’t know if I should wake you or not.” Luka’s eyes dim, and he pushes up to sit, leaning back against the upholstered leather headboard.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” He rubs his forehead between his thumb and middle fingers.
