Chapter 27
Lucian didn’t wait for an invitation. The door was open just enough for Goldie to block his entry, but he leveraged his shoulder against the heavy wood, forcing her back a step with his sheer weight.
Before she could regain her balance or even utter a word of protest about her ruined sleep schedule again, he had stepped inside and kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot.
The click of the latch was immediately followed by the warmth of his mouth finding hers.
He kissed her like a desperate man, tasting of the crisp morning air and the lingering bitterness of coffee.
Her hands came up and pushed against his chest, while her tongue responded instantly, dancing with his, twisting into the familiar, intoxicating rhythm.
Then came a sound, a low, authoritative clearing of a throat that cut through the haze of passion like a knife: “Ahem."
Lucian froze, the low growl of desire in his chest instantly replaced by a groan. He pulled back, his golden-brown eyes wide with a mixture of shock and lingering lust, before quickly stepping away. Goldie stumbled back a step, leaning against the foyer table for support.
Standing in the hallway with one raised eyebrow was Lettie.
Her vibrant, curly red hair, unbound and flying wildly around her shoulders like a chaotic halo, perfectly matched the stern displeasure etched on her face.
Lettie was tapping her foot, the sound sharp and demanding against the hardwood floor.
A sheepish grin spread across Lucian’s face as he glanced down at the floor, suddenly looking like a ten-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Hello, Miss Thorne,” he managed, his voice low and carefully respectful.
Lettie snorted, a sharp, disbelieving sound that was utterly unimpressed. “Lucian Duskbane,” Lettie said, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “Is this how you apologize properly for breaking my niece’s heart by subsequently sucking her face off at 9 a.m. on a Sunday?"
Lucian immediately shook his head, his face flushing crimson. He glanced quickly at Goldie, who was beet-red. “No, Ma’am.”
Lettie simply pointed a dramatic, manicured finger toward the front door. “Why don’t you wait out on the porch while I have a word with my niece about her poor judgment this morning."
He nodded stiffly; the rebuke hitting him squarely in the chest. Lucian felt like a child under Lettie’s scolding gaze. He hurried to the door, his jaw set, and stepped outside. The door closed with a quiet, devastating click.
Lucian leaned against the porch railing, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but his jackal’s hyper-attuned ears couldn’t help but pick up the conversation inside, the voices muffled but clear enough to understand.
Goldie's voice, small and weary, started the explanation. “I... I made myself a Wild Magic Mocha last night, Auntie. For courage and some chaos, I just wanted to get out of my head and have some fun. I didn’t realize how strong it would be or my reaction,” she paused.
“We ran into each other at the festival. And we just… we conversated,” she muttered.
Lettie’s reply was sharp. “So that one conversation led to him showing up and sucking your face off like a vacuum cleaner, right here in the hallway?”
“I was still feeling the effects of the mocha. It amplified... everything,” Goldie grumbled.
“Everything?” Lettie asked.
Goldie sighed dramatically, the sound of her hand hitting what he assumed was her forehead audible even through the door. “Auntie, I really don’t want to discuss it."
Lettie's voice lowered then, shifting from sharp sarcasm to profound, protective concern. “I know you don’t, lovey. Just as I know something else happened, that we don’t need to say much else on.
But I have to say this. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Goldie, and I know that despite everything, the real connection between you two is still burning.
He might be a good male under it all—he certainly seemed devastated all those years ago over Ellie’s lies—but he still hurt you.
He chose to believe a lie over your love and broke your heart.
I watched as you worked so hard to rebuild your self-esteem and trust in others. "
Lucian winced, the words piercing his conviction like cold water.
The admission was a bitter, sickening weight in his gut.
His shame was absolute. He had focused so much on last night that he hadn’t fully grasped that he still needed to work on earning forgiveness.
He had thrown away their lives, and no apology could ever truly fix that.
A profound, agonizing understanding of the price his lack of trust had exacted from both of them came over him.
"I don’t want you to be hurt like that again, Goldie,” Lettie finished, her voice thick with genuine, raw fear for her niece. “Watching your heart break broke mine.”
A profound silence descended, broken only by the low, rustling sound of clothing.
Lucian stood on the porch, the door sealing him out, but not sealing out the devastating echo of Lettie’s voice: he still hurt you.
The shame was a live wire. He was a coward, and he hated it, but he couldn’t face the truth he feared she was about to deliver.
He heard footsteps approach the door, the tread so familiar who knew who it was before the door opened.
The moment Goldie emerged, her eyes were red-rimmed, but her posture was straight and dangerously resolute.
The silence that followed her was heavy, charged with all the things she wasn’t saying—things he knew, with chilling certainty, would end their fragile reunion before it even began.
He saw the cold conviction in her vibrant green eyes: she was about to tell him goodbye, perhaps forever.
"Before you say anything,” Lucian cut in quickly, stepping toward her, his voice rougher than intended. He needed to change the scenery, break the spell of her aunt’s words. “Do you want to go for a walk? We can go down to the river. I need to clear my head, and I assume you do, too."
He watched the calculation flicker in her gaze, the debate between delivering the deathblow and seeking escape. She gave a curt nod and spun back inside, returning moments later with a pair of hiking boots and a coat over her pajamas.
They started walking down the old path toward the riverbank, the crunch of dry leaves under their feet the only sound. Goldie opened her mouth, inhaling deeply, clearly ready to start the difficult conversation.
"So, the pumpkin carving competition,” Lucian interjected, the meaningless words spilling out in a desperate, frantic torrent.
He spoke quickly, rambling over her silence to postpone the inevitable.
“Did you see who won the novice division? I swear, that massive gourd carved to look like a sugar sprite that little Byron made, used magic to cheat. No way a novice managed that much detail. He’s seven-years-old.
It had to be a spell, right? His parents had to have helped. "
“Maybe,” she shrugged.
A silence descended between them as he tried to think up something to fill the void.
She opened her mouth a few minutes later, taking a deep breath, her shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle. “Lucian, about last night—”
"And the festival was winding down so fast, wasn’t it?
” he interrupted, cutting across her words with ruthless determination.
“I kind of wanted to see who won the pumpkin roll derby. Not that what happened wasn’t a million times better.
I heard one vendor complaining that they ran out of maple fudge before 9 p.m. They clearly underestimated the town’s need for sugar-based comfort. "
He was a hurricane of trivial noise, delaying the inevitable.
He felt like a complete asshole, but the knowledge that every unnecessary word bought him another minute of proximity was a sickening comfort.
As he glanced at her, he read the growing frustration in the set of her jaw.
She knew exactly what he was doing: delaying his inevitable execution.
"Lucian, stop,” she finally managed, the command sharp. “I need to talk to you about the festival and listen. About—"
"Wait," he said, holding up a hand and pausing their walk abruptly. He tilted his head, his jackal ear twitched dramatically as if listening to something far off. “Did you hear that? I thought I heard Nibbles. He’s probably hunting squirrels by the creek. The little menace never stops.” He resumed walking, slightly faster this time, forcing her to follow.
“Do you think he actually eats squirrels, or does he just chase them for sport? I can’t imagine a Grifflet having a palate for—"
"Lucian, enough,” Goldie growled, stopping dead on the path. She was shaking, a chaotic mixture of anger and raw exhaustion vibrating off her. “You can’t talk your way out of this or ramble until it magically disappears."
He stopped, turning to face her, his heart sinking with cold finality. This was it.
"I can’t forgive you,” she began, her voice trembling. “I can’t just forget that you chose to believe—”
They had reached the rocky, uneven edge of the riverbank, the water rushing over stones with a low, steady roar that provided a cruel contrast to the frantic beat of his heart.
As she spoke, Goldie stumbled back over a submerged root.
She gasped, arms flailing, already tilting toward the cold, dark water.
Lucian’s instincts took over instantly. Before the rest of words could fully form on her tongue, he lunged, catching her with a powerful hand around her waist. Instead of setting her down, he scooped her up entirely, one strong arm bracing her legs as he pulled her flush against his chest, her heart hammering wildly against his.
The shock, the sudden, fierce scent of her obliterated the last of his rational thoughts.
His mouth descended on hers, desperate, hard, and unforgiving.
He pressed her against a damp, moss-covered rock formation, ignoring the chill.
She was stiff, utterly rigid with resistance, her muscles tense under his touch.
No, not this time, Goldie. He deepened the kiss relentlessly, pouring all his decade of hurt and longing into it.
He worked her mouth with punishing desperation, tasting the salty tears that now mixed with the sweetness of her.
Her hands came up to push him away, pressing futilely against his chest for a split second before they dug into his coat.
He kept pressing, his tongue demanding, his body heating instantly beneath the onslaught of the feel of her body pressed against his.
Then, he felt the first infinitesimal shift—a small, broken sound escaping her throat, a tremor running through her shoulders.
The resistance evaporated. Her hands clenched his shirt tighter, fingers digging into the muscle of his back as she melted into him with a hungry whimper.
The air between them ignited. Lucian broke the kiss long enough to growl, “Tell me you don’t still feel it. Look me in the eye and tell me this is over."
He looked into her eyes, watching as dozens of emotions played across those expressive mossy green orbs. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Opening one more time, she murmured, “Please don’t ask.”