Fated To Love You

Chapter 3.Where Worlds Collide

The man finished yelling and slammed the metal door shut. The beast roared, then rolled away, vanishing into the stream of others like it.

I stood frozen in the middle of the stone path, chest rising and falling, my heart still trying to catch up with what had just happened.

I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t even try.

I should’ve reached out. Called to him. Asked what this place was. Who he was or if he knew anything about the mark on my skin that had flared like fire when our eyes met.

But I couldn’t move. Not then.

Something about him had rooted me to the ground. A presence like iron and smoke and gravity. He wasn’t just powerful—he felt like power itself. And his gaze— moongodess, his gaze—it had cracked some.thing open inside me, something raw and ancient I didn’t even have words for.

And even now, with him gone and the air clearing, it lingered.

He lingered.

His voice still echoed in my ears, though I hadn’t understood a word. His scent—a strange blend of leather, spice, and ozone—clung to the inside of my nose. Even the heat where my mark pulsed hadn’t fully faded.

I pressed my fingers to it, still warm beneath my skin.

The place kept moving around me. Strange faces brushed past. Glowing signs blinked and flickered overhead. Machines growled. Voices shouted.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in—and failing.

This place wasn’t just unfamiliar.

It was.. another world.

And sure. I was very, very far from home. From the forest. From the pack. From Mama.

My feet began to move.

Not with purpose, not with direction—just the instinct to keep going. The world around me blurred into noise and motion. But then, something pierced through it all.

A scent.

Warm. Rich. Comforting.

My stomach growled, loud and hollow. I pressed a hand to it, but the scent grew stronger, wrapping around me like a hook. I followed it without thinking, weaving through the crowd, crossing a path where the ground flashed with lights, and slipping into a smaller street lit by glowing signs.

I stopped in front of a wide glass window. Inside, it was warm and golden, with rows of shelves filled with things I didn’t know. But one thing I recognized.

Bread. It didn't have the shape I knew them to have, but it was bread, I was sure of it.

I stepped inside, the scent pulling me deeper. There was an entire wall of it—long loaves, round buns, flaky twists. Some looked sweet, others salty, all golden and perfect.

My mouth watered.

Back in the pack, I used to run to the baker’s hut and snatch cooling rolls from the windowsill. No one ever scolded me. I was Little-Angel. The baker always pretended not to notice.

So I did the same now.

I reached out.

But the bread wasn’t free. It sat behind a glass case, shielded like something sacred.

I frowned.

That wasn’t right.

I glanced around. No one was paying close attention. The woman behind the counter was chatting with a man, her back half-turned.

Quietly, I slipped behind the counter.

The heat struck me first—the scent of melted butter and warm dough, of cinnamon and cheese.

I reached for a roll. It was soft and warm in my hand. I took a bite.

And the world stopped.

It was sweet and rich, light and soft. Nothing I had ever eaten—no roasted meat, no wild berries, no honey from Mama’s stores—tasted like this.

I grabbed another.

Then another.

“Hey!” a voice roared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I spun around.

A man stormed toward me from the back, his face red, his apron streaked with flour. “Get out! Thief! Out of my shop!”

But I was already moving.

I stuffed two more buns into my arms and vaulted over the counter just as he lunged. A shout erupted behind me. I darted through the door, heart pounding, crumbs on my lips.

People stared. Someone laughed.

But I was running too fast to care. I clutched the rolls to my chest like stolen treasure and didn’t stop. I darted through the door, heart pounding, crumbs on my lips.

My breath burned in my chest as I rounded a corner into a quieter street, still clutching the last of the stolen bread. The city seemed to hush around me, like even the sky held its breath.

Then I heard it.

A sharp, desperate yelp.

I froze. My ears perked instinctively, my senses stretching—and I saw it. A small, scruffy dog darted into the street, frozen in panic as a metal beast sped around the bend.

“No!”

I bolted.

The world narrowed to the flash of headlights and the terrified animal. I reached the edge of the curb and dove, scooping the dog into my arms and twisting to shield it as I hit the pavement.

Pain shot through my ankle. A sickening twist. I cried out but kept the dog clutched tight.

The car screeched, honking wildly, but didn’t stop.

Everything throbbed. My ankle pulsed like fire, and I couldn’t move.

Then there were footsteps. Light, fast, and frantic.

“Lucy!”

A girl no older than ten skidded to a stop beside me. She had wild brown curls and wide green eyes. “You—you saved her! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” she asked, bending to inspect my ankle.

Before I could answer, a tall man in a dark coat stepped up beside her. His expression was ster and calm, yet composed and with eyes that missed nothing.

“She’s injured,” the girl told him quickly. “We have to take her home.”

He didn’t argue. Just gave a short nod, then offered me his arm with the kind of quiet confidence that made you listen without question.

“I—I’m fine—” I tried, but my voice was weak, and even I didn’t believe the words.

“You’re limping. And you saved Lucy,” the girl insisted. “We’re not leaving you here.”

I didn’t have the strength to protest. The ankle throbbed painfully, and the street tilted every time I moved.

So I leaned on them both—the man steady and silent, the girl chattering at my side—as we made our way down the street. Her dog trotted beside us like we were already a pack.

They stopped before a sleek metal beast, gleaming under the city lights. The tall man opened the door for me with quiet precision, and I was helped inside. It was surprisingly warm, the seats soft and smooth beneath me. I shifted uncomfortably, unsure if I was supposed to be here.

“Whoa,” I murmured, sinking into the seat. “This metal beast is… comfortable.”

Beside me, the girl giggled. “You mean the car?” She beamed at me. “It’s called a car.”

Car. The word felt odd on my tongue.

“I’m Lisa, by the way,” she said cheerfully, offering me her hand. “What’s your name?”

I hesitated, but her hand stayed there, waiting, steady.

“…Little-Angel,” I said quietly.

Lisa’s eyes widened. “That’s such a pretty name! It sounds magical.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. No one had ever called it magical before.

The ride continued in silence, except for the soft hum of the machine. Lights flashed by outside as I watched the unfamiliar world blur past. Doubt crept in. Why was I following them? Where were we going?

But when the car turned into a long, tree-lined driveway, I knew.

The house was enormous. No—mansion. Light spilled from its towering windows, and the front doors stood tall and grand like gates to a palace.

The car stopped. Lisa practically flew out before the wheels stopped moving. “I’ll get the kit!” she shouted, disappearing inside.

The man—Edgar, though he hadn’t said so—opened my door and helped me out gently. I leaned on him again, ankle still throbbing.

“Miss Lisa,” he called after her, “slower. You risk tripping and falling.”

The warmth in his voice was faint, but real.

Inside, the mansion was glowing with soft light, marble floors stretching in every direction. My breath caught in my throat.

“Amara,” Edgar said calmly.

A woman appeared from the hallway, her uniform pristine, her posture stiff. She looked to be in her late thirties, with sharp eyes and tightly pinned hair.

“Yes, Mr. Edgar?” Her gaze flicked to me—and changed.

She looked me up and down quickly, her expression tightening just slightly. It was subtle, but I saw it. The coldness. Like I didn’t belong.

“She’s injured,” Edgar said, stepping back.

Amara turned to me with a tight smile. “Of course,” she said. But her hands were brisk, almost too rough, as she crouched down and began inspecting my ankle. “Try not to move,” she added, her voice clipped, not unkind but clearly forced.

I winced as she dabbed a bit too hard with the antiseptic. She didn’t look up, didn’t apologize.

Lisa returned moments later, arms full of supplies. “I found the kit!” she announced proudly, kneeling beside us.

“Thank you, Miss Lisa,” Amara said—sweetly—but the glance she shot me was full of veiled disapproval, like I had dragged dirt across the carpet.

I stayed silent as she worked, trying not to react, but I felt the difference. Her hands didn’t shake. She was good at what she did. But there was no warmth in it.

No kindness.

Like I was a stray dog they’d scooped off the street.

Except Lisa didn’t seem to see it. She kept chatting beside me, smiling, asking if it hurt and saying I’d done something “super brave.”

I didn’t know what to say to her. She was so… genuine. And so completely different from the woman wrapping my ankle like she wished she were anywhere else.

And then I heard footsteps.

Heavy. Steady. Coming down from above.

A young man stepped into view on the grand staircase. Tall. Dark-haired. Sharp lines in his face and something smug in the way he carried himself.

He stopped.

Eyes locking on me.

“What the hell?” he said.

My breath caught.

I knew him.

It was the one who had nearly knocked me over earlier that day. The one who splashed water on me and didn’t even look back.

I stared, stunned.

Of course.

Of course it was him.