"Grandpa, look at him. Will you really let him walk away like that?" Caelum’s voice snapped, sharp with fury, as he glared at the door where Zeran had just vanished.
Damian Tuffin turned his gaze slowly from one grandchild to another, his face lined with quiet strain before he finally let out a long, exhausted sigh.
His jaw clenched as he rose from his seat, crossing the room to his desk where he busied himself, pulling open drawers in search of sothing unseen.
Renar leaned back against the plush leather sofa, his shoulders slumped. Callista’s eyes narrowed, watching him exhale—each breath heavy, like a man crushed by his own indecision.
"Zeran was right," Callista said calmly. "This is between them now. We don’t have the right to interfere." She waited, watching for even the faintest reaction. But Renar only stared into the void, eyes blank.
"Sister, how can you be this cruel?" Caelum snapped. "No—I won’t let her die. I’ll tell her. I’ll convince her to let the baby go."
"And what right do you have?" Callista’s voice cut sharply as she shot him a glance.
"She..." Caelum paused. His brow furrowed as if the words tangled sowhere between pride and truth.
"Oh gods—don’t tell you’re playing at that pathetic childhood crush?" Callista smirked, eyes narrowing. "Do you actually love her, Caelum?"
Caelum lowered his gaze, "I like her. And I want her."
"On your bed?" Her scoff hit like a slap.
Caelum went quiet, the silence tightening around him. His eyes flickered, avoiding hers. The question was blunt and simple. But it struck him right in the gut.
Of course, he wanted Lethia on his bed more than anything. But it wasn’t just about that. Was this... love? And if it was, could soone like him even hold it right?
"Not only that. I want her in my life. I want to see her smile at ," Caelum said, his voice softening as his gaze drifted. "And if she dies, she can’t do that."
Callista let out a mocking laugh, but inside, she was rattled. That answer was not sothing she ever expected from him.
Caelum had never been serious about any relationship in his life. He could have any woman he wanted on his bed, and he’d grow bored with them in less than a week.
But it had been nearly a month, and he was still obsessed with Lethia. He told her that Lethia was soone special from his childhood, but Callista couldn’t quite believe that alone could turn the lustful beast into a lovesick fool.
Renar, who had his eyes shut, slowly opened them again. A sharp pang twisted in his chest as he imagined the consequences Lethia would have to face when she gave birth.
But what unsettled him more was knowing she would submit to Zeran’s command—willingly or not. That very thought churned sothing dark in his stomach.
The baby’s influence would no doubt give Zeran full control over every ache and pull in her body.
And yet... the mory of her asking to stay just friends gnawed at him. His fists clenched at the thought that she never considered his heart at all, did she?
"Yeah... you could be right," he muttered, his voice laced with indecision.
Callista turned toward him at that.
"This isn’t our business anyway. Soone else already has the right to dictate her life now."
Renar slamd Lethia’s report papers onto the table as he stood. That was true. He was only worried because soone’s life was at stake, caught in the tangled ss of their family’s curse.
He was a scientist, a doctor—it was only natural for him to care about the lives of others.
Just as he was about to step out of the room, Grandpa cleared his throat, halting him mid-step.
"I think this might help you figure out what to do," Damian said, slowly approaching with an old, worn file in his hand.
Renar frowned and reached out to take the file his grandfather offered.
"What is this?"
"Your mother’s and Caelum’s cases," Damian said, lowering himself onto the sofa again. "The curse’s been running for centuries—did you think we never tried to stop it?"
Renar flipped through the file, with Caelum now standing beside him, peering over his shoulder.
"You need to find him. The priest who once helped your father. They may have failed back then, but it wasn’t in vain at all."
Renar’s eyes widened. A jolt of adrenaline surged through him.
"That ans—"
"Hm... you should talk to your father first."
Renar’s fingers tightened around the file. The very thing he’d avoided for years. The last thing he ever wanted to do in this world was talk to Jareth Tuffin. His father.
***
Lethia sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes shut as if deep in ditation.
’Whisney... where are you?’
She hoped for a response, but the silence remained undisturbed. She inhaled slowly, then exhaled with caution, trying to steady the unease curling in her chest.
’Listen, it’s not that I care where you’re going. But give clarity about your beads!’
’...’
The stillness lingered over Lethia’s ditation. A sudden stir of heat blood low in her belly, pulling her eyes open.
"Why? Do you miss your father?" she murmured, her voice coated in a sarcastic whine. "Too bad... looks like you’re not high on his priority list right now."
She imdiately scrunched her brows, wincing at the cringe spilling from her mouth. The baby had left her restless since this afternoon, throwing her body into heat, making every nerve ache with need.
And damn it, she hated herself for being so pissed that Zeran still hadn’t co ho. The butler had said he’d be back today, but sunset had long passed, and she was still alone in this big mansion.
Lethia still couldn’t make sense of what the hell was happening to her. She didn’t even like Zeran as a person. But her body craved him, burned for him like a curse she couldn’t shake.
So she forced herself to make peace with it, to accept this ssy need.
And yet, every ti Zeran cald her with that damn slight touch of pheromone bond, there was always this strange ache bleeding out from her chest.
It felt like she hated him for a long ti... and she had no idea why.
She shrugged off her sleepwear robe, her sweat-slick skin flushed from the heat, leaving her in a sheer lace chemise that rode low on her hips, just enough to cover her curves.
With a sigh, Lethia stepped out of her room and headed to the kitchen to warm so milk before bed.
As she poured the milk into the small pot, a strong, muscled arm suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind, sliding low until it curved over her belly.
The shock made her gasp—her grip faltered, and the milk bottle slipped from her hand, thudding against the counter with a dull crash.
"You spilled the milk. How clumsy," a low, throaty voice rumbled at her nape, his warm breath teasing her skin and sending every hair on her body standing in violent awareness.
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