Page 19

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it just stings. Can you give me another one?”

“I can do it if you want,” he offers.

A wave of nausea rolls through me. I’ve always hated the sight of blood. The situation is already humiliating enough; it would only get worse if I threw up on Luka.

“Alright,” I say reluctantly.

A moment later, the sharp stinging returns, along with a hint of pressure as Luka brushes the wipe across the wound. I shut my eyes tight as his scent curls the air, smoke mixed with salt. When I open them again, Luka’s large figure looms over me, his expression serious, focused. He pulls a bandage from the kit and gently places it over my wound. As his hand presses against my leg, I forget the pain. All I can feel is the heat of his skin on mine, the stretch of his hand, how well it fits around the curve of my thigh. I suddenly want more, for his hands to rove over other parts of my body.

I immediately banish the thought. God. It’s been too long since someone has touched me. I can’t remember when my last date was, too distracted with work and then my mom’s death. At least six months ago, if not more.

“There,” he says, his voice gravelly. His fingers linger a heartbeat longer than necessary before he pulls away. It’s hard to tell against his tanned skin, but a faint flush seems to creep up his neck.

“Thanks,” I say, examining the bandage to hide my burning face.

When I glance back up, Luka is leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed. Back to his guarded self. “So, tell me, why do you want to leave?”

“Why do you care?” I shoot back, but then immediately soften beneath his concerned gaze. “Something . . . strange happened.” A lot of things, if I’m being honest, ever since I arrived.

“Strange?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“You forget I grew up here. Nothing here is strange. Well—” a smirk cuts a line up his cheek “—except maybe you.”

I toss him a glare. The idea of repeating Davor’s tale makes me balk, but Luka’s words trigger something in my brain—he grew up here. Maybe he’s heard about the mora, the supposed curse on my family. Getting his take could help me dismiss whatever happened.

And so, hesitantly, I explain Davor’s story, how he believed the mora killed my dad and other ancestors. “He told me that the mora used to live in this bunja on the way to Slatinica, so I went to check it out.” I leave out the strange sobbing I heard, and the haunting figure in the darkness. “That’s where I fell.”

Luka lets out a huff of breath, somewhere between scoff and laugh. “You know, people usually walk away from danger, not toward it.”

My face flushes. “It’s not dangerous if it isn’t real. Have you heard that story before?” I ask. “About this mora?”

Luka’s brows lower, carving a stern line between them. “I have, but it’s just another piece of superstitious nonsense people here like to say. Some people believe a sailor will die if you light a cigarette with a candle or that you’ll never marry if you happen to sit at the corner of a table.” He shakes his head. “The people here just like to gossip. Every day, they go to the ferry even when they have no one to meet, just to see who’s arrived so they have something fresh to talk about.

“But their stories aren’t always true. Sometimes bad things just . . . happen. It doesn’t mean anything special. We only need to accept it and move on.”

There’s a hint of resentment in his voice. As if he has some personal experience with this. I suddenly want to know more—to know if he too lived with some tragedy haunting him like a ghost—but I resist the urge to probe, focusing instead on my relief. I was right to not believe Davor. Whatever I saw in the bunja was just my imagination, his story messing with my head. And my nightmares were only that—nightmares.

“Is that the only reason why you wanted to leave?” Luka asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

I fiddle with my bangs to hide the shame heating my face. “I might’ve gotten a little freaked out. But no, it’s not only that. Things haven’t exactly been . . . easy since I arrived.” He waits for me to go on, so I add, “I think I made Karmela angry yesterday when I asked about my mom. And not everyone here has been friendly.” I narrow my eyes at him.

I expect him to look away, but instead he studies me, his deep brown gaze holding mine. “You can’t leave,” he says finally.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he says, then hesitates, raking a hand through his hair. His expression becomes more strained, as if whatever he’s about to say is causing him pain. “Because in all my life, I’ve never seen Karmela happier.”

I blink at him in surprise. “Really?”

He nods. “How long will you stay here?”

“A month.”

His eyebrows lift. “That’s a decent amount of time. You want my advice?”