The morning sun, bold and uncompromising, carved its way through the vast window of the south guest room, banishing the haunting mysteries of dusk to memory. It was a new day, and with it came the stark, practical realities of the situation Jure had created. He had slept little, his mind a whirlwind of plans and precautions, but he awoke not with fatigue, but with a sharp, focused energy. The hunter was now the keeper, and the cage, however gilded, needed to be secured.
He watched from the doorway for a moment before announcing himself. Mirna was awake, propped up against a mountain of pillows. She was staring out at the sea, her profile etched against the brilliant blue. The fear from the previous night was still there, a constant, low hum in the set of her shoulders and the way her fingers plucked nervously at the duvet, but it was now layered with a profound, bewildered sadness. She looked like a seabird that had flown into a glass wall, stunned and lost.
"Dobro jutro," Jure said, his voice carefully modulated to be both authoritative and reassuring. He stepped into the room, carrying a silver tray.
She flinched at the sound, her head whipping around, those phenomenal violet eyes wide with a fresh spike of alarm. Seeing him, she seemed to shrink into herself, pulling the duvet a little higher. It was a gesture that both frustrated and thrilled him—this tangible proof of her vulnerability, her defenselessness against him.
"I brought you breakfast," he said, setting the tray on the bedside table. Lena had outdone herself: a small pot of thick, strained apricot nectar, a bowl of creamy Greek yogurt drizzled with honey from his own hives, a single, perfectly soft-boiled egg in a porcelain cup, and a slice of light, airy pogacha bread. It was a meal for an invalid, but also for a treasured guest.
Mirna's eyes flickered from his face to the tray and back again. She made no move to touch it. Her gaze was one of pure, animal uncertainty.
"You need to eat," Jure said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled the leather armchair closer and sat, his presence dominating the space around the bed. "To get your strength back."
He waited, a silent command. Slowly, tentatively, her hand emerged from under the covers. It was a slender, long-fingered hand, pale and graceful. She picked up the small spoon for the yogurt, her movements awkward, as if she were re-learning a forgotten skill. She took a tiny bite, her eyes never leaving him. She swallowed with difficulty, as if her throat were still raw from salt water and disuse.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound the gentle scrape of the spoon against the bowl and the distant cry of gulls. Jure watched her every movement, studying her. She ate with a natural, unthinking elegance, but there was a hesitancy, a fragility that spoke of a deep-seated shock. She was like a priceless porcelain doll that had been dropped, and while the exterior was still flawless, the internal mechanisms were rattled and misaligned.
When she had eaten about half of the yogurt and taken a few sips of the nectar, she placed the spoon down, her energy seemingly spent. She looked at him, a silent question in her amethyst eyes.
Jure leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "We need to call you something," he began, his voice taking on a deliberate, thoughtful cadence. He was staging this moment, carefully constructing the narrative of her new life. "You can't remember your name. That's alright. It will come back, or it won't. But for now, you need a name."
He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. He was about to perform the ultimate act of creation. He was going to give her an identity.
"I was thinking," he continued, his gaze drifting past her to the window, to the serene, endless expanse of water. "This place… the sea… it's peaceful here. Strong, but peaceful. Mirna more." He looked back at her, his whiskey-colored eyes capturing hers. "I thought we could call you Mirna."
He held his breath. This was the moment of acceptance, the moment she would, in essence, be baptized into the life he had chosen for her.
Mirna looked at him, her expression unreadable. The name hung in the air between them. He saw the confusion in her gaze, the flicker of something deeper—a sense of wrongness, perhaps? A ghost of a memory tugging at the edges of the void? But there was nothing for the ghost to latch onto. The void was absolute. She was a ship without a rudder, and he was offering her a port, a name, a direction. What choice did she have?
Her lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. Then, she gave a single, small, obedient nod. It was a gesture of utter submission, a silent ratification of his authority. She had accepted the name. She had accepted the first brick in the foundation of the identity he was building for her.
A profound, warm satisfaction spread through Jure's chest. It was a feeling more potent than any business acquisition. He had not just saved a life; he had named it.
"Good," he said, a slow smile touching his lips. It was a smile of ownership. "Mirna. It suits you." He gestured around the beautiful, sun-drenched room. "And this is your room for as long as you need it. You can stay here, Mirna. You are safe under this roof. I will make sure of it."
The words were a promise, but they were also a cage. You can stay. Under this roof. With me.
Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. Before Jure could answer, Lena Petrović entered, her arms laden with a stack of neatly folded fabric. Her sharp eyes took in the scene: Jure sitting possessively close to the bed, the mostly uneaten breakfast, the young woman's pale, frightened face.
"I have brought some things for our guest," Lena said, her voice neutral.
"She agreed that her name will be Mirna," Jure said, not taking his eyes off the girl in the bed.
A flicker of something—pity, understanding, resignation—passed over Lena's features. "Of course. Mirna." She laid the clothes on a chaise lounge by the window. They were simple, practical garments. A few cotton dresses in soft, solid colours—cream, pale blue, a dusky rose. A pair of linen trousers, a simple sweater. Underthings. All of them were new, their tags removed, but they were deliberately chosen to be unassuming, almost austere. Nothing that would accentuate her beauty; nothing that would suggest vanity. They were the clothes of a docile, dependent creature.
"Thank you, Lena," Jure said, dismissing her. "Mirna will dress herself."
Lena gave a curt nod and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Jure stood up. "You should get up. Try on the dresses. See what fits." It was not a suggestion. He walked to the window, turning his back to give her a semblance of privacy, though his reflection was faintly visible in the glass. He was not a man who granted privacy easily; it was a concession, a small one, to maintain the illusion of her autonomy.
He heard the soft rustle of the duvet, the faint sound of her bare feet on the polished concrete floor. There was a long pause. He watched her reflection. She was standing by the chaise, staring down at the folded dresses as if they were artifacts from an alien culture. She reached out a tentative hand and touched the fabric of the cream-colored dress, her fingers tracing the simple line of the collar.
Then, with a movement of heartbreaking clumsiness, she began to undress. She pulled the white nightdress over her head, letting it fall to the floor. For a moment, she stood naked in the streaming sunlight, her body a pale, graceful sculpture against the dark leather of the chaise. Jure's breath caught. The sight was even more potent than it had been on the beach. Here, in his villa, she was completely exposed, completely his.
She seemed unsure of what to do next. She picked up the cream dress, holding it up against her body. She fumbled with it, trying to figure out which way was front, which was back. It was clear, in that moment, that the act of putting on a dress was not a familiar one. It wasn't just weakness or confusion; it was the tentative, awkward grace of someone for whom clothing was a novel, constricting concept.
Finally, she managed to pull it over her head. The soft cotton fell to her mid-calf. The dress was a little too large, its simplicity making her look even younger, more vulnerable. She stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, as if waiting for instructions.
Jure turned from the window. He walked towards her, his eyes appraising. She took a small, involuntary step back, her violet eyes wide.
"Stop," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
She froze, obeying the command instantly.
He reached her and slowly circled her, like a sculptor assessing his work. The dress hid the specific curves he had memorized, but it couldn't conceal the slender elegance of her form, the graceful line of her neck, the way the fabric hinted at the shape of her breasts and hips. In its own way, the concealment was more provocative than her nakedness had been.
He came to a stop in front of her. He reached out and gently straightened the collar of the dress, his fingers brushing against the skin of her collarbone. She shuddered at the touch, a full-body flinch, but she did not pull away. Her eyes were locked on his, filled with a terrified obedience.
"It fits well enough," he declared, his voice a low murmur. "You look… appropriate."
Appropriate. The word was carefully chosen. It meant she fit the role he had assigned her. The lost girl. The ward. His Mirna.
He saw the tears welling in her eyes again, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. It was her first, small, unconscious act of resistance. A refusal to give him the satisfaction of her despair.
In that moment, standing in the simple cotton dress he had provided, bearing the name he had given her, in the room he owned, Mirna was complete. Jure Barišić looked at his creation, and his heart swelled with a dark, possessive pride. She was his blank canvas, and he was ready to begin painting.