Chapter 23
The drive to the festival grounds was a blur of moonlight and the rhythmic, mocking thrum of the truck’s tires against the asphalt.
Lucian gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, the silence of the cab a desperate shield against the echoing voices of his parents.
He could still see his father’s knowing smirk and hear his mother’s soft, repetitive sighs.
Every “I told you so” they hadn’t yet voiced felt like a physical weight, a suffocating layer of guilt he wasn’t ready to face.
He had been a fool, a puppet dancing on threads spun from Ellie’s malice and spells, and the realization was a bitter pill that wouldn’t go down.
He figured if he went to a public place, she could not try her dark magic on him again if he ran into her there.
At least not in front of other witches. So the most public place tonight was the festival.
He parked haphazardly at the edge of the dirt lot. Walking into the festival, he watched as couples drifted past, carrying caramel apples and paper cups of cider. A little girl tugged her father toward the hayride, laughing so hard she nearly tripped over her own boots.
Once upon a time, he’d brought Goldie here.
A first date, a first hope; a future he’d thrown away.
He closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids a canvas for the memory: the delighted giggle that bubbled up as he’d smeared a dollop of whipped cream from his hot chocolate, the glistening dollop on her nose, a stark white against her flushed cheeks.
He opened his eyes and saw the vibrant smiles on other people’s faces, a mirror of the joy he once felt, but now, only a faint echo, a hollow space left.
He didn’t know how to dismantle the wall of lies he’d built between them; even if she never looked at him again, at least he would try.
As he pushed through the milling crowds, the smell of wood smoke and fried dough filled the air.
He walked around with no destination in mind, the restless energy of his jackal demanding movement he couldn’t satisfy.
He was seeking a kind of temporary anonymity, a place where his shame didn’t follow.
For a moment, he felt utterly lost in the crowd, a phantom walking through the vibrant, smiling faces, some familiar, some new.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and let the cheerful voices around him wash over him.
A loudspeaker crackled, jolting him from his internal monologue.
“Attention, festival-goers! The annual Pumpkin Roll Derby is about to begin! Contestants, bring your pumpkins to the starting line. Spectators find a good spot—last year’s champion took out three hay bales and Gertrude's prize chrysanthemums.
Children squealed and darted toward the hill, while parents hurried after them. The smell of cinnamon, roasted nuts, and caramel drifted through the cool evening air when he walked past a food stall. He looked at the treats, but wasn’t feeling hungry.
The crowd surged toward the course. Lucian followed the tide of people, drawn less by the race than by the comforting distraction of organized chaos.
He walked, his eyes scanning the sea of heads, not expecting to find anyone, but seeking anything to anchor him.
His jackal suddenly stilled. Every restless instinct that had been clawing at him since he’d left home went silent.
Lucian frowned. Then he saw the flash of gold and green hair.
She was standing near the front, her back to him, her head tilted slightly as she watched the racers.
He moved carefully, weaving through bodies, his massive frame parting the throng.
He had rehearsed a hundred apologies throughout the day.
Every single one sounded pathetic now. There weren’t enough words in any language to return the ten years he’d stolen from her.
‘Sorry’ felt too small. ‘I was wrong’ felt like a betrayal of the ten years of anger he had held onto so fiercely and directed at her.
He finally stood just behind her, his height allowing him to look down at the delicate curve of her neck and the vivid color of her hair.
Inhaling deeply, he smelled her mixed with the various people in the crowd.
He wanted to find the words to express the raw, overwhelming weight of his regret.
He had destroyed their lives, and the magnitude of the loss was a physical ache he couldn’t shake.
His palms were damp. Ridiculous. He’d faced angry customers, city traffic, and jackals twice his size. Yet one five-foot-something witch reduced him to forgetting how to breathe.
He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways over the last few hours. In every version, Goldie walked away. He wasn’t sure he would blame her if she did.
She was laughing. The sound carried over the crowd; it struck him harder than any punch ever had.
She must have sensed him. Slowly, she turned and looked up at him.
Her vibrant green eyes, usually so guarded or sad, were wide and sparkling with a wild, almost reckless abandon.
Her lips curved into a dangerous, confident smile, a look he hadn’t seen in a decade, and it was enough to stop his breath in his chest. His stomach dropped.
Something was different. She looked like the woman he’d fallen in love with ten years ago... only wilder.