Chapter 30
The jackal's adrenaline still burned through Lucian’s veins, a high-octane mix of raw anger and corrosive shame.
He cut the engine in the driveway; the sudden silence crushing the last vestiges of his recklessness.
He didn’t want to go inside; he didn’t want to see the knowing, disappointed look in his father’s eyes. But he had nowhere else to go.
He took a deep breath as he pushed open the front door. The cool, quiet air of the house did little to temper the heat radiating from his skin.
Luke was waiting in the living room, perched on the edge of his recliner. The old man’s brow furrowed, his eyes—golden-brown mirrors of Lucian’s own—sharp and assessing.
“Well, what’s wrong, boy?” Luke growled.
Lucian shucked off his leather jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa, not noticing his unbuttoned shirt and heaving chest. “Nothing,” he replied, his voice flat, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
But his eyes betrayed him. Nothing is wrong, just that I ruined everything. I don’t deserve her; I never did. The thoughts hammered against the inside of his skull, a frantic rhythm of self-hatred. He felt the familiar, cold ache of his own heart breaking over the fresh rejection.
Luke pushed himself up, walking closer. His own hands trembled slightly, a subtleness from his claw tremor that Lucian barely noticed, consumed as he was by his own turmoil.
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Lucian. I can smell the adrenaline on you.
You look like you’ve been running from a forest fire. ”
“It’s nothing I want to talk about,” Lucian insisted, gripping the back of the sofa, needing the grounding pressure against his palms. He couldn’t explain the sheer, visceral hunger that Goldie still ignited, only to be followed by the soul-crushing silence of her withdrawal.
He had confessed; she had given him her body, and then she had pushed him away. The confusion was blinding.
Luke sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound that Lucian remembered from his childhood, the sound of parental patience running thin. “This is about Goldie, isn’t it?”
Lucian let out a short, harsh laugh. “Yes. What other drama do I have going on?”
“Don’t give me that lip, pup.” Luke stepped right into his space, his eyes locking onto his son’s with a fierce, challenging intensity.
Lucian snorted, “You were right. Goldie was innocent and I’m an idiot, happy?”
Luke shook his head. “You need to listen to me. You broke that girl once because you trusted the wrong person. Don’t you dare break her again because you’re too proud to fix it.”
The words struck Lucian like a physical blow.
They weren’t accusatory; they were a hard, simple truth.
Lucian felt the volatile anger drain away, replaced by profound weariness.
His golden eyes clouded with raw, agonizing regret.
“What do you want me to do, Pop?” he asked, the question laced with helplessness.
Luke sighed again, shaking his head. “I thought I raised you better than to ask me stupid questions. Tell me everything.”
Lucian dropped onto the couch; it creaked under his weight.
Luke sat down beside him. The words poured out of Lucian then, a torrent of confession he hadn’t realized he was holding in.
He told his father about the Wild Magic Mocha, the impulsiveness in the storage tent, and the breathless reunion that shattered a decade of distance.
He admitted the primal, devastating truth of finally holding her again, and then, the sharp, agonizing twist of her asking him to leave.
“She doesn’t trust me, Pop,” Lucian finished, his voice a broken whisper. “And she shouldn’t.”
Luke was silent for a long moment, the TV screen illuminating his thoughtful expression. Then, he simply said, “Then earn it.”
Lucian looked at his father, desperate for a map, a manual, a magical fix. “How?” he pleaded.
Luke shook his head, a wry, exasperated look crossing his face. “Do I need to write you a manual, boy? I don’t have the answers for that. You built this wall of ice, Lucian. You figure out how to climb over it.”
Lucian stared out the window, the truth settling heavy in his gut: apologies were useless.
The damage was done; a mere confession of Ellie’s treachery wasn’t enough to reverse ten years of corrosive doubt and anger.
He had to prove himself, but the question of how was like screaming into the void that his mind had become.
He jumped up from the couch. The anxiety, the shame, and the desperate need for clarity were a volatile cocktail demanding release. “I’ll be back later, Pop,” he said, his voice ragged.
He stepped onto the porch. He stripped his clothes off on the porch, the denim and cotton falling carelessly to the wooden floor.
The cool air hit his skin, instantly overridden by a sudden, building heat that started deep in his core.
He dropped to his hands and knees, letting the agonizing, familiar wrench of the shift take him.
Brownish-blonde fur exploded across his skin, his bones lengthening and snapping, transforming his human frame into the lean, muscular power of his jackal form.
The jackal was free of human shame. He needed to run, to let the volatile anxiety flow through his muscles until nothing was left but the simple clarity of running free.
His paws ate up the distance across the yard, silent on the dew-damp grass.
The wind blew through his fur as his paws tore the forest floor up.
He slowed only when he reached the massive, gnarled oak tree—the same tree where he and Goldie had shared their first kiss, and the same place where he had shattered her heart ten years ago.
He stopped beneath the sprawling canopy, looking up through the brightly colored leaves at the sparse, cold scattering of clouds. In the quiet sky, guided by the cold, clear logic of his jackal side, a plan formed.