THE PULL OF FATE

Chapter 9

Lucia couldn't sleep.

Her conversation with her father left her with more questions than answers, and the weight of his refusal to tell her anything only fueled her determination.

There was something hidden in this house. Something connected to her mother.

A strange urge pulled her toward the attic. It was a place she had rarely ventured—dusty, cluttered with forgotten memories, and sealed off by years of neglect. But tonight, it felt different. As if something was waiting for her.

She climbed the creaky stairs, the dim moonlight filtering through the tiny window above, illuminating the space in an eerie glow. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and old trunks and wooden boxes were stacked haphazardly.

Lucia ran her fingers over the lids, her heart hammering as she hesitated over one particularly old chest. It was different from the others—smaller, locked with an iron clasp that looked rusted but sturdy.

She knelt before it, her breath hitching as she reached out, fingers tracing the worn edges. It looked untouched for years, but something about it sent a shiver down her spine.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged at the clasp. It gave way with a reluctant creak.

Inside, wrapped in delicate cloth, was an old journal.

Lucia swallowed. The leather cover was worn, the pages yellowed with age. Slowly, she opened it.

The handwriting was elegant but faded. The first page bore a name she had never seen before—but the moment she read it, a strange chill settled over her.

Ezekiel.

Lucia's fingers tightened around the edges of the book. That name… it stirred something in her, something buried deep in the recesses of her mind.

She turned the pages, scanning words that felt half like a warning, half like a desperate confession.

"The bond cannot be severed, no matter how much we wish it could. The curse is tied to the bloodline, and she is the key."

Lucia's breath hitched.

She.

Who was this referring to?

More importantly—why did her father never speak of this?

She flipped to the last written page, her pulse racing as she took in the final entry.

"If he finds her… there will be no stopping it."

The ink was smudged, as if someone had gripped the paper too tightly, pressing down in frustration or fear.

Lucia shut the journal, her mind reeling. Who was he? Who was this Ezekiel?

A sudden chill ran down her spine.

She wasn't alone.

The attic's silence felt too heavy, too charged.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Through the small attic window, past the dense tree line beyond the mansion, she saw them.

Eyes.

Gold. Glowing. Watching.

Her breath caught. The presence wasn't just staring at her—it was calling to her.

Before she could stop herself, she was moving. The journal still clutched in her hands, she rushed down the attic stairs, through the empty hallways, and out into the cold night air.

The pull was irresistible.

She didn't know what she was looking for. But something in her did.

Lucia followed the feeling, her feet carrying her toward the outskirts of town, past empty streets and dimly lit alleyways, toward the edge of the forest.

Then she felt it.

A presence.

Not the kind that sent fear skittering up her spine, but something deeper—something that made her skin prickle with awareness.

She turned sharply. At first, there was only darkness between the trees. But then, in the shadows—eyes.

Gold. Luminous. Fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture too still, too controlled, as if holding something dangerous at bay. His hair was dark, falling slightly over sharp features. But it was his eyes that rooted her to the spot.

Golden.

Lucia's pulse thundered. She knew those eyes.

The man didn't move like an ordinary person. He was too controlled, too calculated—like a predator holding itself back.

Lucia knew she should feel afraid. But all she felt was heat curling low in her stomach, a pull toward him she couldn't explain.

His nostrils flared slightly, and his gaze darkened as if something about her unsettled him.

Then, he spoke. His voice was deep, rough—like it had been dragged over gravel.

"Your scent…"

Lucia blinked. "What?"

His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, as if he were physically restraining himself.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, but it wasn't a warning. It sounded more like a struggle.

Lucia's breath hitched. He looked at her like he knew her—like she was something impossible yet undeniable.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

For a moment, he hesitated, as if saying his name would change something he wasn't ready for.

Then, finally—"Ezekiel."

Lucia's world tilted.

She gripped the journal tightly, her chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. The name from the pages. The name from the warning.

The name she had never heard before—yet felt as if she had known all along.

Ezekiel took a slow step forward.

Lucia should have moved, should have retreated. But she couldn't.

Ezekiel's muscles tensed. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but he just exhaled harshly, shaking his head.

Then, suddenly—a distant howl.

His entire body went rigid. Lucia barely had time to react before he was in front of her, gripping her wrist. His touch wasn't rough, but there was something possessive in the way his fingers curled around her skin.

He was too close. His warmth bled into her, his scent—something rich and earthy—filling her senses.

"Go home" he said, this time softer, almost pained.

She stared up at him, breathless. "Tell me what's going on first."

Ezekiel's eyes flickered—gold burning brighter. His grip tightened just slightly before he let go, stepping back as if forcing distance between them.

"This isn't the time."

And then—just like that—he was gone.

Leaving Lucia standing in the darkness, her heart pounding, his name whispering through her mind.

Ezekiel.