The channel out of the cove felt different. The narrow passage of rock, once a gateway to solitude, now felt like a gauntlet he was running, a fugitive fleeing a crime scene. Jure's hands were locked on the teak wheel, his knuckles bone-white. The Sirena's engines, usually a sound that spoke of freedom and power, now roared with the frantic urgency of a getaway car.
His mind was a storm of conflicting impulses, a battlefield where cold pragmatism warred with a strange, burgeoning obsession. Every few seconds, his eyes would flick from the treacherous, razor-edged rocks to the companionway that led below deck, as if expecting her to appear. But she didn't. The only evidence of her presence was the profound, unsettling silence from his master cabin, a silence that felt heavier and more significant than any sound.
The hospital. The thought was a clear, logical beacon in the chaos. The General Hospital in Dubrovnik was competent, clean. He could have her there in under an hour. He would be the good Samaritan, the wealthy benefactor who'd done his civic duty. There would be forms, questions from polite but firm doctors and perhaps a bored police constable. Where did you find her? Was there anyone else? Did you see a boat? He could answer them. He was Jure Barišić. His word was a solid, unassailable thing. They would nod, thank him, and take her off his hands.
And then what?
She would become a case number. A Jane Doe in the system. Her extraordinary, fragile beauty would be subjected to the harsh, fluorescent lights of a public ward, the prodding of strangers, the bureaucratic indifference of the state. The image of her, lying on that white bed in his cabin, was seared onto his retina. She was a rare, priceless artifact, washed up on a forgotten shore. Handing her over to the authorities felt like dropping a newly discovered Da Vinci into a government warehouse. It was an act of supreme carelessness.
And there was more. A darker, more possessive thread woven through his reasoning. If he took her to the hospital, she would cease to be his. The mystery of her would be taken from him, dissected by others. The singular, electrifying moment of his discovery would be diluted, turned into a mundane anecdote for a police report. He had pulled her from the sea. He had felt the faint, bird-like flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers. He had carried her, her cool skin against his. That created a bond, a primal claim that logic could not dissolve.
He bypassed the main shipping lane, keeping the yacht close to the dramatic, sheltering coastline. The ancient walled city of Dubrovnik came into view in the distance, a fairy-tale citadel of orange-tiled roofs and formidable stone walls glowing in the late afternoon sun. It was a postcard view, a symbol of order and civilization. He turned away from it, guiding the Sirena south, towards the secluded headland where his villa perched like a raptor's nest.
His villa. Kameni Orkan—The Stone Hawk. He had named it himself. It was not a home; it was a statement. A fortress of modernism and steel grafted onto the ancient limestone cliffs, all sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling glass, and cantilevered terraces that thrust out over the abyss. It was accessible only by a single, gated road that wound its way down from the coastal highway, or by sea. It was the ultimate expression of his success and his isolation. A place where he was utterly in control.
As he approached the private dock, a sleek, concrete structure extending from a small, man-made inlet, he reached for his phone. He had a single, dedicated speed-dial number.
It was answered on the second ring. "Gospodin Barišić?" The voice was a familiar, steady alto, laced with a quiet, unflappable competence.
"Lena," he said, his voice tighter than he intended. "I am arriving at the dock now. I have… a guest. She is unwell. I will need your help."
There was the briefest of pauses on the other end. Not of hesitation, but of processing. "Of course, sir. What kind of help?"
"She is unconscious. She will need to be carried. And prepared a room. The… the south guest room. With the sea view."
"The south guest room," she repeated, her tone neutral, yet he could almost hear the gears turning in her head. The south guest room was the finest in the villa, reserved for his most important—or most favored—business associates. It had its own terrace, a marble en-suite, and a view that stole the breath from your lungs. He had never put a sick, unknown "guest" in there.
"We will be up in five minutes," he said, and ended the call.
He maneuvered the Sirena with a surgeon's precision into its berth, the fenders groaning softly against the dock. The silence that descended when he killed the engines was once again profound. Now, it was filled with the weight of the decision he had just irrevocably made.
He went below.
She hadn't moved. She lay exactly as he had left her, a pale sculpture beneath the white duvet. Her hair was a wild, drying aureole on the pillow, the dark blonde strands beginning to separate into individual, coppery curls. In the cabin's soft light, her skin seemed less like alabaster and more like living pearl, with a subtle, inner luminescence. He stood over her, just looking, for a full minute. The desire to touch her again, to confirm the reality of her, was a physical pull. He resisted. This was not the time.
He re-wrapped her in the large Turkish towel, ensuring she was fully covered, a bundle of pristine white cotton from which only her face and a cascade of tangled hair emerged. The act felt ritualistic, like swaddling an infant or preparing a sacred object for transport. Lifting her, he was once again struck by her lightness. It was unnatural, unsettling. She was all air and spirit, with no substance.
He carried her up onto the deck, the late afternoon sun warm on his back. The climb from the dock to the villa was a steep one, a series of wide, stone steps carved into the cliff face, flanked by cypress trees and agave plants. He saw a figure waiting at the top.
Lena Petrović stood, a solid, immovable silhouette against the brilliant sky. She was a woman in her late sixties, with a face that was a roadmap of a life lived with dignity and quiet strength. Her grey hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore a simple, dark dress. She had been his housekeeper for fifteen years, since his divorce. She was more than staff; she was a fixed point in his turbulent universe, a woman who had seen his triumphs and his rages and had never once judged him aloud. Her loyalty was absolute, her discretion, priceless.
As he ascended the final steps, her sharp, dark eyes took in the scene in a single, comprehensive glance: her employer, his linen trousers soaked and clinging, his face a mask of grim intensity, carrying a limp, towel-shrouded form in his arms. Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing. She simply moved aside to let him pass, then fell into step behind him as he moved through the villa's vast, minimalist living area.
The villa was a temple to his taste—cool, expensive, and impersonal. Polished concrete floors, white walls, furniture that was more architectural statement than comfort. Massive artworks, abstract and severe, dominated the spaces. It was a place designed to impress and to intimidate, not to nurture.
He carried his burden down a wide, airy corridor to the south wing. The door to the guest room was open. Lena had been efficient; the blinds were raised, flooding the room with the golden, late-afternoon light, and the sheets on the vast, low-slung bed were turned down.
"Lay her here," Lena said, her voice calm and practical.
Gently, far more gently than he did most things, Jure laid the woman on the crisp, white linen. The towel fell open slightly, revealing a pale shoulder and the curve of her neck. Lena's eyes darted to the exposed skin, to the faint scratches, then back to Jure's face. The question hung, unspoken, in the air between them.
"I found her," Jure said, the explanation sounding inadequate even to his own ears. "In the cove. On the beach. She was like this."
Lena moved to the bedside. She did not gasp or exclaim. Her reaction was a subtle, controlled intake of breath, a slight widening of her eyes. She was looking at the woman's face, at the impossible, sculptural beauty, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the dark, silken sweep of her lashes against her cheeks.
"She is breathing," Lena observed softly, her professional demeanor reasserting itself. She reached out, her work-roughened fingers far more confident than Jure's had been, and felt for the pulse at the woman's wrist. "Steady. But weak. Gospodin Barišić, she needs a doctor."
"No," Jure said, the word coming out sharper than he intended. He moderated his tone. "Not yet. She is stable. She just needs to rest. In a proper bed. Not in some… public ward."
Lena's gaze was unwavering. She understood the subtext. No outsiders. No questions. This stays here. She had worked for him long enough to know that Jure Barišić's world was one of controlled narratives and managed perceptions. A naked, unconscious woman was a variable that could not be controlled.
"She is injured," Lena stated, her eyes tracing the scratches on the woman's arms and legs. "There is a bruise here, on her shoulder. We should at least clean these."
"You can do that," Jure said. It was not a question.
Lena gave a single, slow nod. "I can. But I am not a doctor."
"We will watch her. If she does not wake soon, or if she seems worse… then we will reconsider." It was a concession, however hollow.
Another silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft, rhythmic sound of the woman's breathing. Lena finally broke it. "We cannot leave her like this." She gestured to the towel. "It is damp from your clothes. She will catch a chill. She needs to be properly cleaned and put into something dry."
Jure felt a strange, proprietary reluctance. The towel was the last connection to the moment of discovery, to the raw, unmediated truth of her on the beach. To remove it was to begin the process of domesticating her, of fitting her into his world. But Lena was right.
"Do it," he commanded, his voice gruff. He turned and walked to the wall of glass that looked out over the terrace to the sea. He stood with his back to the bed, his hands shoved into his pockets, a sentinel facing the horizon. He heard the soft, efficient sounds of Lena's movements behind him: the rustle of the towel being removed, the opening of a wardrobe, the running of water in the en-suite bathroom.
He stared out at the vast, empty expanse of the Adriatic. The sea that had given her to him. What was her story? A shipwreck? There had been no storms. A pleasure boat accident? No reports of anything missing. A suicide attempt? She seemed too… vital, even in her unconscious state, for that. An assault? The thought sent a cold, dark fury through him. Had someone harmed her and thrown her overboard? The idea that someone else had laid claim to her, had violated that perfect form, was intolerable.
"Gospodin Barišić."
He turned. Lena had worked quickly. The woman was now dressed in one of the simple, expensive cotton nightdresses that were kept in the guest room drawers. It was white, long-sleeved, and high-necked, making her look even more like an innocent, a sleeping angel. Her hair had been brushed back from her face, the wild tangles smoothed into waves that flowed over the pillow. Lena had washed the sand and salt from her skin, and the superficial scratches now stood out, thin, pink lines against her pristine pallor. She looked peaceful, curated, and utterly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.
"She has no… marks," Lena said quietly, answering the question he had not dared to ask aloud. "Nothing serious. The scratches are only on the surface. The bruise is the worst of it. She is… unblemished."
Unblemished. The word echoed in the quiet room. It was the right word. She was a perfect canvas.
"Thank you, Lena," he said, his voice low.
"What shall we call her?" Lena asked, her practical mind already moving to the next necessity. "We cannot just call her 'her'."
Jure's eyes drifted from the woman's face to the window, to the sea. The sea that was both serene and deep, mysterious and powerful. The sea that had hidden her and then revealed her to him.
"Mirna," he said, the name coming to him as if from the water itself. "We will call her Mirna."
It was a common enough Croatian name, meaning 'peaceful' or 'serene'. But it also evoked the mirno more—the peaceful sea. It was perfect. It tied her to this place, to his world, to the element that had delivered her to him.
Lena nodded slowly. "Mirna," she repeated, testing the sound. "It suits her." She moved towards the door. "I will prepare some broth. In case she wakes. And I will find some salve for these scratches."
She left, closing the door softly behind her, leaving Jure alone with the woman who was now Mirna.
The room was bathed in the deep, honeyed light of the setting sun. The sky was beginning to flame into oranges and purples, and the first star, Venus, glittered like a diamond just above the horizon. The scene was one of impossible romance, a cliché from a film. But the reality in the room was far stranger, far more potent.
He pulled a heavy, leather armchair close to the bed and sat down. He did not touch her. He simply watched. He watched the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest beneath the white cotton. He watched the flicker of a tiny muscle beneath her eye. He watched the way the dying light gilded the tips of her eyelashes and painted her lips a softer, rosier hue.
He was a hunter, and he had captured the most exquisite prey. He was an archaeologist, and he had unearthed a priceless relic. He was a king, and a new, mysterious subject had been delivered to his court.
The rational part of his mind, the part that had built an empire, knew this was insanity. It whispered of liability, of danger, of the monstrous ego required to make such a decision. But that voice was faint, distant, like the cry of a gull from far away.
A stronger, deeper current was pulling him now. A current of possession, of fascination, of a desire that was as much about the mystery as it was about the flesh. He had bypassed the hospital. He had brought her here. He had named her.
The chain of ownership was being forged, link by deliberate link.
Outside, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, and the room was plunged into a soft, blue twilight. Jure Barišić did not move to turn on a light. He sat in the growing darkness, a silent, brooding sentinel watching over his impossible, sleeping prize. The villa was silent, the world was shut out, and the only thing that was real was the faint sound of her breathing and the vast, dark, unknowable sea beyond the glass.