CHAPTER 42: THE PULL WITHIN

The sharp burn in her foot had dulled to a steady ache, softened by the touch of his hands. Vincenzo’s movements were careful now, precise, as he wrapped the strip of linen snugly around the wound, and for a moment she found herself admiring the flex of his fingers.

The crisp air drifted through the chamber, broken only by the faint rasp of linen in his grip. When he tied and secured the bandage in place, Vincenzo did not move away immediately.

His hand lingered against her ankle, steadying her. When he finally stood, his gaze met hers. His voice was quiet, measured, but there was a weight beneath it as he asked, "Back in the study—did you feel something that drew you to the window?"

For a heartbeat, she wanted to remain in the fragile ease his tenderness had offered. But a chill ran down her spine as the memory stirred—those whispers. She drew in a shaky breath before speaking, her voice unsteady, almost unsure.

"I... I don’t know what it was. I heard whispers. Not words I understood—more like chanting." She swallowed hard, the words dragging out as if reluctant to be spoken. "They were calling me, pulling at me. It felt like claws in my mind, dragging me toward something I could not see." She faltered, eyes flickering with unease. "The sound of them... it was like it did not belong to this world."

Vincenzo’s expression did not shift at once. He crossed to the window, the space between them widening, yet the air felt heavy with something unspoken. He stood still—motionless, as though listening again through her words, weighing every tremor in her voice. Only the faintest tightening of his jaw betrayed what stirred beneath his composure. His gaze fixed on the castle grounds, the walls gilded by the golden light spilling into the chamber, setting it aglow.

"Not of this world..." he repeated quietly, as though testing the shape of the words. His eyes darkened, a flash of unease surfacing quickly before it was veiled beneath the calm mask he always wore.

Anneliese shook her head, almost to herself, uncertainty tugging at her features. "At first I thought it came from the parchment, but no... it did not came from the parchment. It came from somewhere else. Distant. Like a call echoing through stone—too far to reach, but close enough to hear."

Her voice wavered, her hand tightening against her dress. "It was... constant. Pressing against me. As though it wanted me to follow. To obey."

The silence that followed stretched taut. The wind’s faint brush through the chamber offered no relief. Instead, it only deepened the wrongness that clung to her words, lingering like a shadow between them.

At last, Vincenzo turned from the window. His steps were measured as he crossed back to her. The weight in his gaze did not waver, though something unreadable moved beneath it.

"You do not have to worry about your magic or be afraid of it," he said, his tone edged with certainty. "The day after you arrived here, I sent for someone—someone who knows how to teach others to shape their power, rather than let it shape them, someone who can help you learn to command it and not fear it."

"She will guide you, teach you to wield what you carry instead of being consumed by it," Vincenzo continued, his voice low, steadying. "Once you understand your magic and learn your strength, whatever this call is—whatever forces are seeking you—your power will answer on your terms, not the other way around."

For a moment, she stared, her gaze fixed on him as her brow furrowed. Surprise flickered across her features, softening into something between disbelief and gratitude. His words should have steadied her, should have anchored the trembling in her chest. Yet beneath the fragile lift of relief she felt by his words, the memory of the unseen pull still pressed against her mind. A part of her longed to believe him completely, to let his certainty drown out the whispers she could not escape.

Her eyes lifted to his, searching as she asked at last, her voice low, carrying the thin edge of urgency she had not meant to reveal, "When will she arrive?"

Vincenzo’s gaze softened, a faint shadow of a reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his lips, unnoticed even by him, though his eyes remained intense, thoughtful. He inclined his head slightly, letting his words settle between them like a quiet promise. "Tomorrow," he said at last, his voice calm. "She will arrive tomorrow."

Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, the certainty in his voice finally dulling the insistent thought that had pressed at the edges of her mind. Her voice was soft, careful, carrying the delicate mix of curiosity and unease. "And... who is she?"

Vincenzo’s gaze drifted for a moment, as if recalling something, and a cunning smile tugged at his lips before he returned his eyes to hers.

"She is from Witchland," he began, each word chosen with care, yet soft enough to ease some of the tension pressing at her chest. "From the family of Head Witch Bellatrix."

Noticing the confusion flicker across her features, he added, "Head Witch Bellatrix is one of the head members of the High Conclave."

The significance of his words pressed on her mind, a mix of awe and unease threading through her curiosity. "She... she must be very powerful, then," Anneliese murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching his for confirmation. "And... she will teach me?"

Vincenzo’s smile returned at her awed expression before he replied, "Yes. She will guide you, help you shape your magic, understand its reach, and command it—rather than letting it command you."

The weight in his eyes held a subtle intensity as he asked, "How does your foot feel now? Is it hurting too much?"

Anneliese glanced down at her foot. The ache had dulled, but his question stirred a memory. A blush crept across her cheeks as the image of him pressing his lips to the wound, tracing the remaining drop of her blood with his tongue, resurfaced in her mind. Her heart skipped a beat, and she dared not meet his gaze immediately.

Vincenzo watched her carefully, noting the faint flush coloring her face and the shaky breath that escaped her delicate lips. Her voice, barely above a whisper and more flustered than he expected, broke the silence at last. "Ahh... no... no... It’s... It’s not hurting that much now."

Her flustered murmur lingered in the air, sparking something deep within him. He felt an irresistible pull to lean closer, to claim her attention and close the space that suddenly felt unbearable to maintain.