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Thirty-Two

Petra

July 2026

The scent of salt stirs me awake. For once, my body isn’t stiff and sore from hours of sinking into the mattress. Sunlight pours from somewhere overhead, gently toasting my skin. The warmth is so delicious I want to soak it all in, slip back into sleep. But in the back of my mind, a faint voice tells me something’s off. This isn’t my bed.

I stiffen, squinting at my surroundings. It takes me a moment to place the sleek interior of the boat, to remember it belongs to Luka. He lies beside me, still asleep, one arm curled around a pillow, the other stretched toward me. Memories of the night before flood my mind, so surreal it all feels like a dream. Did all that really happen? What brought me here?

And then the image of blood slams into my vision, tightening my throat. The glint of Nikola’s sickle slicing through the air. I hadn’t wanted to go back to Lavender House—the house of a murderer. And so I had come here.

A dull sense of dread pools in my stomach. Luka may have iron around his neck, but a part of me knows I shouldn’t have come. We didn’t speak of love, but I feel us drifting toward it, like a ship inevitably drawn to a doomed shore.

As I stare at his sleeping figure, my mind jumps to Karmela.

Shit. What time is it? What will she think when she goes to my room and finds I’m missing?

I scramble out of bed, quickly pulling on my nightgown. In my haste, Luka wakes up.

“I’ve got to go,” I tell him. “I don’t want to worry Karmela.”

He groans in understanding, then sits up, combing a hand through his mussed hair. “I can come by later. If you want to talk about the diary and the workshop,” he clarifies.

A jolt of fear lances through me. I don’t want to tell him everything I’ve learned, but I can’t hide the truth either. I nod, then mutter a quick “Yeah.”

Just as I’m about to slip through the door, Luka calls me back. He pulls on his shorts and strides over, handing me his jacket. “Here. Take this.”

Grateful, I put it on, breathing in the smoky scent clinging to the fabric. “Thanks.” I drink in his sleepy face, his wild hair, before he bends down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. I savor his touch for a blissful moment before I turn and leave.

One good thing about never spending the night is I’ve never experienced a walk of shame—until now.

Even though the sun has barely creeped over the horizon, the harbor is bustling. People stroll on and off boats, cluster around the benches along the shore. Their eyes widen in shock as I pass, then narrow in accusation. With Luka’s jacket draped across my shoulders, I sense that they know exactly where—and with whom—I spent the night.

Walk of shame, indeed.

I do my best to avoid the stares, focusing straight ahead and walking as quickly as my legs can manage while still appearing calm. But as soon as the path turns, and I’m out of sight of the harbor, I run.

As I approach Lavender House, I slow. Wariness and a hint of revulsion churn in my stomach the closer I get.

The teal shutters are flung wide open, the dark hollows between glaring down at me like an accusing parent scolding a disobedient child. But I do not shrink beneath it. Instead, I straighten my spine and tip my chin up in defiance as I scrutinize the initials of Marko Klarin etched into the facade. The crack running through the letters seems deeper now, more grotesque—or perhaps his legacy was always this broken and ugly.

As I stand there, looking up, the front door swings open.

“Petra!” Karmela’s voice—sharp with relief—brings me back. She rushes toward me and wraps me in a hug. I’m startled to see tears shimmering in her eyes. The shame rushes back, tenfold.

“I’m sorry if I worried you,” I say.

She squeezes me tighter. “I thought—I thought you left.”

And then it hits me, the full weight of my mistake. Was this what it was like when my mom abandoned her? Did Karmela wake up one morning to find her daughter gone without a word? Whatever reasons I had for spending the night with Luka dissolve into dust. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have left her alone.

I swallow, trying to gulp down the guilt clinging to my throat. “I’m sorry,” I say again, rubbing her back.

“Where were you?” she asks, pulling away to look at me.

I bite my lip, too overwhelmed to come up with anything better than the truth. “I was . . . with Luka.”

Realization slowly dawns on her face. “Oh.” Her expression softens from sadness to approval. “I told you he is a good man.”