Escaping the Siren Prince

Living History

“Don't.”

Cora stared at him.

His fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, warm against her skin, while behind him a photograph taken one hundred and two years ago displayed his face with considerably less concern about being discovered.

“Don't?” she repeated.

“Don't take the photograph.”

“Yes, I gathered that's what you meant.”

Luka's jaw tightened.

Cora looked pointedly at his hand that still held her wrist.

He released her immediately.

She rubbed her wrist, not because he'd hurt her, but because the lingering feel of his hand around it was proving annoyingly difficult to ignore. There was something distinctly masculine about the casual way he'd held her, and the warmth of his touch seemed to remain even after he'd let go.

She pushed the thought aside and lifted her phone again.

“Cora. Please.”

“No.” She lowered it, but only because she wanted both hands available for what was rapidly becoming an argument. “You don't get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“You've spent days making me question my own sanity. You made me wonder if I was drunk, hallucinating, dreaming, remembering things wrong. Every time I got close to something real, you gave me just enough of an explanation to make me doubt myself. And now I finally have something right in front of me that I can see, photograph, and prove, and suddenly don't is supposed to be enough?”

Luka's expression softened. The usual amusement disappeared from his eyes, replaced by something quieter that Cora hadn't seen from him before. Guilt, she realized. He looked at her as though he was finally seeing what the last several days had felt like from her side, and he didn't seem particularly proud of it.

Cora pointed toward the photograph.

“I saw you underwater. You had a tail instead of legs. You glowed with bioluminescence. You put your mouth on mine.”

The playfulness returned to Luka's expression, one eyebrow lifting in silent challenge.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

The corner of Luka’s mouth twitched before giving way to the faintest smirk, slow and knowing, like he was enjoying the fact that she knew him well enough to catch it before he’d even said a word.

“See? That.” Cora gestured at him. “Every time I get close to an actual answer, you do that. You make a joke, or answer a question with another question, or somehow get me arguing about whether you kissed me instead of explaining why you have a tail.”

“You brought up the kiss.”

“Not the point.”

Luka’s smirk deepened. “Just to be clear, we are calling it a kiss now?”

Cora paused. “What?”

“Yesterday you were adamant it was an emergency oxygen transfer. Thirty seconds ago, you downgraded it to me putting my mouth on yours.” His eyes dropped deliberately to her lips. “I’m pleased to see the incident has finally been promoted.”

“It has not been promoted.”

“A kiss seems like a promotion.”

“You are completely missing the point.”

“I rarely seem to care about the point when you start talking about my mouth.”

Cora glared at him.

Luka's amusement disappeared almost as quickly as it had surfaced. His gaze shifted past her to the photograph, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“Ok. You're right.”

Cora blinked.

Of all the responses she'd prepared for, that hadn't been one of them.

“What?”

“You're right.”

She stared at him suspiciously. “About which part?”

“The photograph. Photographs.”

Her heart gave one hard beat.

Luka looked directly at her.

“You are not imagining it.”

The room seemed to go unnaturally quiet around them.

Cora had wanted those words. She'd spent days trying to drag some version of them out of him, gathering evidence and constructing explanations because Luka Varek refused to give her anything solid enough to hold.

Now that he had, she wasn't prepared for the way the floor seemed to shift beneath her.

She glanced back at the photograph.

“That is you.”

“Yes.”

One word.

No joke.

No clever redirection.

Just yes.

Cora swallowed.

“You were here in 1924.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him again. “And you looked exactly like that.”

Luka's gaze dropped briefly to the photograph. “I suppose I haven't changed much.”

“Really...”

“What?”

“You know exactly what you're doing.”

“I agreed with you.”

“You made it sound like we're discussing a haircut.”

Luka glanced at the photograph again. “I was there, Cora. I don't require the photograph to tell me what I looked like.”

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

“That is an absolutely insane sentence.”

“I imagine it sounds that way.”

She stared at him for another long moment before looking down at her phone.

“Why don't you want me to take the picture?”

“Because you've already found more than you should have.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“No.” His gaze held hers. “But it's the one I'm giving you here.”

Here.

Cora caught the distinction.

“Then take me somewhere you'll give me a better one. Or better yet, more than one.”

That seemed to surprise him.

Only slightly, but Cora was getting better at recognizing the tiny fractures in Luka's composure.

He studied her for several seconds.

“Alright. Then spend the afternoon with me.”

Now it was Cora's turn to be surprised.

“I'm sorry?”

“The afternoon. And dinner.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is this another attempt to get me to stop asking questions?”

“I gave up on that particular effort.”

“Smart.”

“It was becoming increasingly clear that stopping you is futile.”

“So you’ll answer them?”

Luka considered her for a moment. “Some of them.”

“Some?”

“You ask a remarkable number of questions.”

“Because you answer approximately none of them.”

Again, that almost-smile.

Cora hated how much she liked it.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Where?”

“I thought you wanted answers.”

“I do.”

“Then come.”

Cora glanced once more at the 1924 photograph before sliding her phone into her bag.

“This is either the best investigative decision I've made all week or the beginning of a documentary about an American tourist who disappeared on a tiny forgotten Croatian island.”

Luka started toward the door.

“You've nearly drowned twice since arriving here, and neither incident involved me murdering you.”

Cora followed him. “You were involved in both.”

“Involved is not responsible.”

“The first time, I heard a mysterious song, walked into the ocean like I'd lost every survival instinct I possess, and found you standing in water too deep for you to possibly be standing in.”

“I didn't make you go into the water.”

“Still to be determined.”

Luka glanced back at her, amusement returning to his eyes.

“And the second time,” she continued, “I fell off a boat, nearly drowned, got dragged underwater, and woke up on a beach.”

“I saved you.”

“You kissed me.”

Luka stopped walking.

Cora nearly walked into him.

His gaze dropped pointedly to her mouth. “So we're back to calling it a kiss?”

“Oh my God. Keep walking.”

His mouth curved as he turned toward the door again.

“My point,” Luka said, “is that I may have been involved in both incidents, but I was responsible for neither.”

“You have an incredibly generous definition of not responsible.”

“And yet you’re willingly spending the afternoon with me.”

“Willingly is debatable.”

His quiet laugh followed them outside.

Apparently, spending the afternoon with Luka Varek meant walking through Vela Luka with someone who seemed to know every stone in it.

Not simply the streets.

The history.

He took her first to the seawall pictured in the 1970 photograph, although most of what she saw now bore little resemblance to the grainy image on her phone. The harbor had been repaired and expanded since then, the stone reinforced in places and the walkway widened, but Luka pointed out an older section where pale limestone blocks disappeared beneath newer construction.

“The storm took out most of this side,” he said.

Cora looked from the wall to him.

“In 1970?”

“Yes.”

“You remember it.”

He glanced at her. “You already know I do.”

It was going to take some time to get used to that.

She pulled out her phone and opened the photograph she'd taken earlier.

“The full beard?”

Luka sighed.

“Was that a seventies decision or an immortality crisis?”

“I never said I was immortal.”

Cora lowered the phone.

Interesting.

Before she could pursue it, Luka continued walking.

“Hey.”

“You wanted to see the island.”

“I want answers.”

“And you’ll get some.”

“Some,” Cora repeated. “You realize every answer you give me creates approximately six more questions.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Then you understand the problem.”

“You’ve been asking questions since we met.”

“And yet, somehow, I still know almost nothing.”

“That isn't true.”

“Ok, you're right. I know you have excellent cardiovascular endurance and questionable boundaries.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Cardiovascular endurance?”

“You swim a lot.”

This time she got the full smile.

And there it was again.

That ridiculous transformation.

The severe lines of his face softened, warmth appearing where there was usually only control, and for one stupid second Cora forgot she was walking beside a man who had just confirmed he'd been alive at least a century ago.

Her heart did an embarrassing little flip.

No. No no no. No Ma'am.

She looked away.

They stopped for lunch at a tiny window tucked beneath a striped awning, where an elderly man was serving grilled flatbread folded around sardines, tomatoes, herbs and something Luka told her was a local olive spread.

The man greeted Luka with obvious affection.

Within thirty seconds Luka was behind the counter fixing something on a loose cabinet hinge while the owner complained loudly in Croatian.

Cora stood outside holding two paper-wrapped lunches and watching in disbelief.

Luka emerged a minute later.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're staring.”

“I'm observing.”

“That sounds more scientific.”

“It is.”

He took one of the wrapped sandwiches from her.

Cora watched the old man wave from behind the counter.

“You know everyone.”

“I've lived here a long time.”

The understatement nearly made her choke.

They ate as they walked, Luka pointing out pieces of the village Cora never would have noticed on her own. He pointed out small pieces of the village's history tucked into otherwise ordinary places, details easy for a visitor to overlook unless they knew exactly where to look.

A carved stone embedded in the wall of an old house had once marked the edge of the original harbor. A narrow lane now filled with flower boxes had flooded during a storm decades earlier. An old warehouse near the water had once stored salt and fishing nets before becoming apartments.

Cora listened despite herself.

Because Luka was interesting.

Infuriating, impossible, attractive, secretive and potentially dangerous, but interesting.

And when he talked about the island, some of his guardedness disappeared. He knew how the coastline had changed, where old springs once ran beneath the limestone, which coves had collapsed during storms and where fishermen had once pulled boats onto shore before the modern harbor existed.

Not like someone who had studied it.

Like someone who remembered.

Eventually they climbed toward a small stone memorial overlooking the harbor.

Cora stopped, recognition settling in. “This is the one from the other photograph.”

The local men who had served during the Second World War.

Luka continued another two steps before looking back.

She already had her phone out and found the 1941 photograph and enlarged it.

Then she looked at him.

Then the photograph.

Then him again.

Luka closed his eyes briefly.

“That was you as well.”

“Yes.”

“With the mustache.”

“Yes.”

“You actually chose that...”

“It was fashionable.”

Cora stared at him.

“It was.”

“It was … terrible.”

“It was 1941. And it was fashionable.”

“That doesn't make it better.”

“Men were wearing them.”

“Not all men.”

“Enough.”

She zoomed in.

Luka reached for the phone. Cora pulled it away.

“No. I want documentation of your questionable grooming decisions.”

“Delete that.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cora.”

“You prevented me from getting 1924. The mustache is mine.”

His expression suggested this might be the first moment in a very long life when someone had weaponized his historical facial hair against him.

Cora grinned.

And Luka laughed.

Not the quiet amused exhale she'd heard before.

An actual laugh.

Warm, deep and startlingly normal.

Cora's smile faded slightly as she watched him.

There was something dangerous about discovering Luka could be normal.

Dangerous because she liked him considerably more when he was.

By the time they started back toward the center of the village, the afternoon had softened toward evening.

They passed Saint Mihovil as the lowering sun turned the limestone walls gold.

Cora slowed looking for her earlier discovery.

Luka noticed immediately.

“You were here too.”

“This morning.”

His expression changed.

“I found a grave.”

Luka stopped walking.

Cora turned toward him. “One Varek in the entire cemetery.”

He looked toward the stone wall surrounding the churchyard.

“The inscription was almost gone. I could read Varek and maybe the beginning of the first name. Kata something. I thought Katarina, but I couldn't be sure.”

For several seconds, Luka said nothing.

“You know who it is.”

“Yes.”

The easy mood of the afternoon disappeared.

Cora stepped closer. “Who?”

Luka's gaze remained on the cemetery.

“Someone I knew.”

Knew.

Not an ancestor.

Not a distant relative.

Someone I knew.

Cora felt a chill move over her skin despite the warmth of the evening.

“The date started with seventeen.”

“I'm aware.”

Of course he did.

“Who was she?”

Luka finally looked at her.

“Not tonight. That is complicated.”

Her frustration returned instantly. “You invited me to spend the afternoon with you because you said you'd answer questions.”

“I said some.”

“You're unbelievable.”

“I've been called worse.”

“I can imagine. You've had a lot of time to collect opinions.”

That earned her a look.

Cora folded her arms.

“How much time, exactly?”

Luka's expression gave her nothing.

“Dinner,” he said.

“That's not a number.”

“No.”

“Luka.”

But he was already walking.

Cora stared after him.

Then, because apparently she had learned absolutely nothing about self-preservation since arriving on Vela Luka, she followed.