Chapter 8
The next sound Marigold heard wasn’t a roar, but a sharp, undeniable scream. A resounding clang that echoed off stainless steel followed it. Goldie ran to the kitchen doorway, her breath caught tight in her chest, heart hammering as she threw the door open.
She stopped in her tracks and leaned against the jamb.
Her vibrant green eyes widened. Nibbles had found a new, higher form of aerial chaos.
He was perched on the ventilation hood, struggling to balance a heavy iron skillet he’d somehow managed to dislodge, and then he let go.
The pan dropped, narrowly missing Lucian’s head and striking the floor with a painful, vibrating crash.
He was a blur of motion, leaping up onto a stool, cursing as he swiped at Nibbles, who cackled an irritating chirp of triumph and kept flying around the room in tight loops.
Watching from the doorway, memories flooded back.
The sight of him—muscles straining, eyes narrowed in focus—was so intensely familiar that the ten years of betrayal and heartbreak dissolved.
She was seventeen again, standing by the creek after a thunderstorm, and Lucian was chasing her through the mud, determined to catch her and steal a first kiss that had felt like lightning.
She saw him laughing on their first date, trying to teach her how to change a tire while his ear twitched with playful frustration.
He was always so kinetic, so utterly there.
She could vividly see the old Lucian in the way his jaw was set, in the furious energy of his body as he futilely chased Nibbles around.
This was the un-guarded male, the boy she had fallen in love with, temporarily unburdened by the cold conviction that she had put a spell on him.
He was just a frustrated shifter battling a chaotic Grifflet, and a useless, foolish part of her heart tightened with agonizing memories for this fleeting moment.
The chase ended abruptly. Lucian’s feet hit a puddle on the tile and slid out from under him.
He went down hard, landing on his backside with a loud oof and a splash that sent water spraying onto the cabinets.
Goldie clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a sudden burst of inappropriate, high-pitched laughter.
The sound was half-gasp, half-giggle, and it betrayed the sheer release of tension that Lucian’s ridiculous, clumsy downfall provided.
She failed to hold it in, a laugh escaping past her fingers.
The moment he realized she was watching—and laughing—Lucian froze.
He stopped trying to scramble up, his golden-brown eyes, still blazing with the jackal’s frustration, snapping up to glare at her from his position on the wet floor.
The fury of the chase transmuted instantly into a cold, directed anger.
“You think this is funny,” he said, his voice flat and dangerous, a low growl that vibrated in the air.
Goldie’s smile died instantly. She shook her head, trying to re-compose her face, but the damage was done.
At that exact moment, Nibbles—the source of all the chaos—soared in for a perfect landing, tucking his wings neatly as he settled on her shoulder.
The grifflet let out a low, victorious hiss toward the male on the floor.
Lucian’s nostrils flared, and he pushed himself up, wiping his hands on his torn shirt. He growled, the deep, rumbling sound of his jackal side asserting itself. Goldie swallowed hard, biting her lip so fiercely it nearly drew blood.
She swallowed the humor away as she met his hard, unforgiving eyes, and the old sting of rejection returned, sharp and clear. “I’m sorry,” she muttered weakly.
“It’s not funny, Goldie. He’s a liability,” he snapped, his gaze flickering from her to the Grifflet perched on her shoulder. “He could seriously hurt someone.”
“Like witch, like familiar,” she snorted, rolling her eyes.
“That miniature gargoyle is trying to kill me.”
“He’s not a miniature gargoyle,” she countered, her own protectiveness flaring up for her familiar, whose tiny talons were now gripping her sweater tightly.
She frowned, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest. “You don’t need to be mean to an innocent little grifflet.
He’s just trying to get you to play with him. ”
“Innocent?” Lucian scoffed, taking a step toward her. His ear twitched in aggressive disbelief. “He just tried to drop an iron skillet on my head, launched my tools across the room, and shattered a jar of sugar! He’s trying to kill me,” he repeated, his conviction unshakeable.
“Maybe he senses your anger towards me and reacted,” she growled, her mama bear defenses coming up.
“Which is it? Is he innocent or protecting you?” He replied. “Make up your mind.”
Flustered, she opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.
The absurdity of the moment was lost in the resurgence of their decade-old fight.
They stood at an impasse—him demanding; her defending.
The air grew thick with unspoken hurt and accusation.
They were fighting, not about plumbing or grifflets, but about everything they had lost.
He stormed out of the kitchen and out the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the glass of the display case.
Goldie’s shoulders slumped. She couldn’t afford this. Not today. Swiping a hand across her damp cheeks, she brushed away the tears she had not realized had started to fall.
It took her one sweep of the room to realize nothing was finished.
She knew she had no one else she could call in this small town to handle a major plumbing fix, certainly not before opening hours.
Her shop, her livelihood, depended on him.
She swallowed her pride as she rushed after him, catching him just as he was opening the door to his battered, faded green truck.
“Lucian, wait!” she called out, her voice raw. “Can you please help me fix the plumbing?”
He turned, his face still a mask of cold fury. She waited, hoping he would respond, but when he didn’t, she knew he would not make this easy.
“Please,” her voice cracked on the word.
Her heart raced as she waited for his answer. Knowing that the next words would determine if she opened up or not for the next couple of days.
“Will you keep that mini menace under control?” he demanded, gesturing toward the shop with his wrench.
She nodded, a desperate, silent promise. He went back inside, his heavy footsteps echoing her reluctant victory.
Goldie went and locked Nibbles in the small staff bathroom.
The Grifflet, clearly outraged by the containment, grumbled a series of high-pitched complaints and flew frantic, loud circles around the tiny room, his wings whacking the tile walls.
The noise was only muffled slightly by the thin door.
Goldie walked back to the kitchen, the air still thick with water, and Lucian’s volatile scent.
She kept her gaze low, focusing on the puddles of dirty water and scattered sugar as she cleaned. “I’m sorry about the mess,” she murmured, grabbing a mop.
As she worked, swiping the mop across the floor to corral the mess, she felt the need to explain, to offer a piece of herself he might understand.
“Nibbles was a gift from my aunt Lettie,” she began, the story tumbling out in a rush, “before she left town to travel the world. She wanted to make sure I wasn’t alone in the house.
It’s just been the two of us for years, and he gets very protective of me. "
Lucian, who was already back under the sink, grunted—a short, noncommittal sound that did nothing to soothe her nerves.
"I think he can sense you don’t like me,” Goldie continued, her voice small.
Lucian stopped working, pulling his head out from under the sink, his expression cold and set. “With valid reason,” he said, the words cutting through the humid air.
Goldie choked on a self-deprecating laugh, the sound thin and strained. The sting of his accusation was a decade-old wound, but it felt as fresh as the water leak on the floor. “I never did what you think I did,” she whispered, her hands gripping the mop handle until her knuckles were white.
He shoved out from under the cabinet. “I saw the proof,” he retorted instantly, his golden-brown eyes hardening into granite.
Goldie shook her head slowly, a profound weariness settling over her. “I never got to see this ‘proof,’ but I know it’s fake. You decided I was guilty before I ever had the chance to defend myself. As long as you refuse to listen, I suppose I’ll never know what convinced you."
She felt the words settle over her as a final death knell on a promise that had burned so bright and fast it must have been destined to be snuffed out.
The mop scraped softly against the cool, painted wall as she leaned it there.
With a sigh, she turned and stepped out; the floor creaking a low note beneath her worn soles.