Teen Wolf: Second Howl

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Lucas's Perspective

The mansion was quiet when I stepped inside. Too quiet for a house this big.

It was nearly 10 p.m. The hour when most homes are winding down for the night, when lights dim and the air shifts into something softer. But here, the silence didn't feel gentle. It felt like absence.

I moved through the entrance hall, my footsteps sounding far too loud against the polished marble floors. Every step seemed to echo, bouncing off the tall ceilings and ornate walls like a reminder that I was the only one here—or at least, that's what I thought.

The house felt less like a place where people lived and more like a museum—grandiose, meticulously preserved.

That's why I was surprised to find Susan waiting.

She was in the sitting room, seated on the edge of one of the velvet couches, legs crossed neatly, a laptop resting on her knees. Her reading glasses were perched low on her nose, and the glow from the screen cast sharp light across her face, turning her features into something angular, almost severe.

But as soon as she saw me, she closed the laptop with a quiet click. Not hurried, not annoyed—just… purposeful.

"You missed dinner," she said, voice calm, level. Not accusing. Just stating a fact. Her tone carried something restrained, like she was trying not to sound too concerned. Like she wanted to reach out, but wasn't sure she was allowed to.

She added, "I know I don't have any right to tell you what to do… but if you're going to go out, I'd prefer if you let Patrick drive you. Especially this late."

I stood there, halfway between the hall and the room, unsure of what to say at first. Her voice had been soft, but there was a kind of quiet gravity to it.

I took a breath. "You're right."

Her expression shifted slightly—just a flicker, a blink. Like she hadn't expected me to agree.

I stepped further into the room, letting the door close behind me.

"We don't really know how to be around each other," I said after a moment. "Even though you're my mother… we feel like strangers."

Susan's features softened. A small sigh passed through her lips, and she nodded, slow and deliberate.

"And that's my fault," she said. Her voice was quieter now. Not defensive—just honest. "But…" she hesitated for half a second, and then a smile tugged at her lips. A real one. "We could try to change that. If you're open to it. Maybe… over dinner?"

I nodded.

She stood without another word and moved toward the dining room, and I followed, the distance between us still wide—but not as wide as it had been before.

The dinner was simple, reheated, clearly meant for earlier. Grilled salmon, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables. On paper, it was upscale—like everything else in this house. But it didn't feel pretentious. It felt thoughtful. Like someone had tried to make something nourishing. Warm. It tasted like someone had actually cared.

We ate in near silence for the first several minutes. The only sounds were the occasional clink of fork against plate, the muffled hum of the house settling around us. It should have felt awkward, but it didn't—not entirely. There was something tentative about the silence. Like neither of us wanted to speak too soon and break it.

Then Susan spoke.

"Your grandmother died giving birth to me," she said quietly, as if the words had waited years to be said.

I paused mid-bite, glancing up at her.

"I never knew her," she continued, her voice steady but low. "But your grandfather? I knew him all too well."

Her gaze shifted away from me, as if memory had pulled her into another room entirely.

"He was… a hard man," she said finally. "Ambitious to a fault. Cold-hearted. Ruthless when it came to power. He was built like a stone wall—emotionally, I mean—and twice as stubborn. But when I was little, I wanted to be just like him. I thought that's what strength looked like."

She let out a small, bitter laugh—dry and without humor.

"I didn't realize how wrong I was until Jenny came along."

I watched her carefully. Her words weren't calculated. They weren't part of some speech. She wasn't performing. She was just telling the truth. And there was something disarming about that. Something raw.

She was trying. Trying to connect. Trying to let me in.

So I let her talk.

She turned her wine glass slowly between her fingers, watching the way the liquid caught the dim light, though I could tell her mind was far away.

"Jenny's mother…" she began again, more cautiously now, "…was your grandfather's fifth wife."

I raised my eyebrows. "Fifth?"

Susan gave me a sideways look and a tight, humorless smile. "Yes. He collected wives the way some men collect rare wines or stocks—based on value, usefulness, timing. Whatever benefitted him most at the time."

I leaned back slightly in my chair, letting that image settle. Cold. Calculated. Transactional.

"It was, in his words, a 'match made in heaven.'" She scoffed under her breath. "She was just like him—beautiful, driven, utterly self-absorbed. They understood each other perfectly. No love, of course. Just… mutual ambition."

Her voice softened then, and she looked down at her plate, most of the food untouched now.

"But then Jenny was born. And for the first time, something entered their world that couldn't be negotiated or strategized around. A child. A little girl who just wanted to be loved."

She paused again, her fingers tightening slightly around her glass.

"It was painful to watch. The way she tried to earn their attention. Their affection. She'd draw them pictures, bake cookies with the kitchen staff and carry them upstairs herself. She'd wait outside her mother's door, hoping for a compliment on her new dress or her braids."

Susan looked up at me then. And in her eyes, I saw years of guilt, of helplessness, of regret.

"But they were too busy with themselves to see her. To really see her."

A knot twisted in my chest.

I thought of Jenny—the curious, bright, annoyingly persistent girl who'd made it her mission to bond with me. I'd thought it was just how she was. But now I saw it—maybe she wasn't just friendly. Maybe she was still trying to be seen.

Susan set her glass down gently, her fingers now folded in her lap.

"That's when things began to shift for me," she said quietly. "That's when the illusion started to crack. When I realized the man I'd spent my whole life admiring… wasn't good. Wasn't kind. Wasn't someone to emulate."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full. Heavy with memory. With things unspoken and newly revealed.

Two strangers sat at a table, still unsure of how to bridge the space between them.

But for the first time, a mother and a son were beginning to try.