AI rain lashed against the single-paned window of the flat on Brick Lane, a rhythmic assault that did little to drown out the lively din of the curry house downstairs. The air inside the cramped one-bedroom was thick, a stifling blend of old paper, damp wool, and the permeating scent of turmeric and roasted cumin seeping up through the floorboards.
Aurora "Rory" Carter sat on the edge of the sagging sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest. A half-eaten container of chow mein sat on a precarious stack of leather-bound folios on the coffee table. Across the room, perched atop a bookshelf swaying under the weight of obscure occult texts, Eva’s tabby cat, Ptolemy, watched her with unblinking judgment.
"Don't look at me like that," Rory muttered, rubbing her thumb over the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit she hadn’t managed to kick since childhood. "She asked me to watch the place. She didn't say I had to organize it."
Ptolemy yawned, unimpressed.
Rory sighed, dropping her head back against the cushions. It had been two weeks since she had seen Lucien. Two weeks since the business at the warehouse, two weeks since he had pulled her out of the line of fire, his hands searingly hot against her waist, only to shove her into a taxi and tell her, with a voice devoid of distinct emotion, that she was a liability he could no longer afford.
*A liability.* The word still sat in her stomach like a stone.
A sharp rap at the door shattered the mood.
Rory froze. Her muscles locked tight, the instinctual fear she had carried with her from Cardiff flaring to life. She hadn't ordered anything. Eva wasn't due back for days. And nobody else came up here, not past the flickering lights of the communal stairwell.
The knock came again. Three distinct, weight ed strikes. Not the frantic pounding of a drunk, nor the polite tap of a neighbor. This was a summons.
Rory unfolded herself from the sofa, moving silently in her socks. She navigated the labyrinth of book stacks and arcane scrolls scattered across the rug, stepping over a pile of research notes concerning ley lines. She paused at the door, her heart hammering against her ribs as she peered through the scratched magnifying glass of the peephole.
The hallway was dim, but the figure standing there was unmistakable. The light caught the severe slick-back of platinum blond hair, wetter and darker than usual.
Rory leaned her forehead against the wood, closing her eyes for a brief, pained second. She should pretend she wasn't home. She should leave him out there in the damp East London gloom.
But Rory Carter was many things—delivery driver, runaway, reluctant student of the supernatural—but she wasn't a coward.
She threw the first deadbolt. The *clack* echoed loudly. Then the second. Finally, the third. She yanked the door open, ready to tell him to go to hell in any of the four languages he spoke.
The words died in her throat.
Lucien Moreau looked like a ruin of his former self.
He stood leaning heavily on his ivory-handled cane, the tip resting on the fraying welcome mat. His tailored charcoal suit—usually an armor of impenetrable elegance—was soaked through, the wool dark and heavy with rain. Water dripped from the sharp line of his jaw, running down his neck and vanishing beneath a collar that was uncharacteristically unbuttoned at the top.
But it was his eyes that stopped her. The heterochromatic gaze that usually dissected her with amused detachment was fever-bright. The amber left eye seemed to glow with an inner, sulfurous light, while the black right eye was a void, dilated and bottomless.
"Rory," he said. His voice was a rasp, stripped of its usual velvet polish. "May I come in?"
"You look terrible," she said, clutching the doorframe. She didn't move aside. "I thought I was a liability, Lucien. Isn't this below your pay grade?"
He winced, a micro-expression that barely rippled across his pale features, but she saw it. Lucien didn't wince. Lucien didn't show pain.
"Please," he breathed, his grip tightening on the cane until his knuckles turned white . "It is… not a good night to be outside."
Rory looked down. Below the hem of his jacket, a dark stain was blossoming on the charcoal fabric, just above his hip. It wasn't rain.
"Damn it," she hissed. She stepped back, pulling the door wide. "Get in. Quickly."
Lucien crossed the threshold, bringing the smell of ozone and copper in with him. He moved with a stiff, careful grace, avoiding the stacks of books as if he had the layout of the chaotic flat memorized. Rory slammed the door shut, locking all three bolts with a speed that made her fingers ache.
When she turned around, Lucien had collapsed onto the sofa she had just vacated. He sat rigidly, his cane propped between his knees, staring at the wall. Ptolemy had jumped down from his perch and was currently sniffing the wet leather of Lucien's shoes, his tail twitching.
"What happened?" Rory demanded, marching over to him. She felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere—a static charge that always accompanied him, a hum in the air that made the hair on her arms stand up. The demon blood. It was agitated .
"A disagreement," Lucien murmured, closing his eyes. "With an associate from Avaros. He felt my pricing was… extortionate."
"And he stabbed you?"
"He tried. I believe he is regretting the attempt now." Lucien opened his eyes, fixing her with that jarring, dual-colored stare. "I did not know where else to go. My flat is compromised. The safehouse is watched."
"So you came to Eva's? To me?" Rory crossed her arms, trying to keep her hands from shaking. "After what you said? You have some nerve, Moreau."
"I did not come for Eva," he said softly .
The silence that stretched between them was heavy, filled with the sound of the rain and the shallow rhythm of his breathing. Rory looked at him—really looked at him. The arrogance was peeled back, leaving something raw and desperately human exposed underneath.
"Let me see it," she said, her voice dropping the sharp edge.
Lucien hesitated, then slowly unbuttoned his jacket. His white dress shirt was plastered to his skin, crimson blooming across the left side of his abdomen. It was a nasty gash, though it seemed to have already stopped bleeding—supernatural healing, presumably, but it clearly still hurt like hell.
"Do you have a first aid kit?" he asked, his tone attempting a casual air that failed miserably.
"I live with a witch who keeps dried newt eyes in the spice rack. I think we can find some bandages." Rory went to the kitchenette, rummaging under the sink until she found the battered tin box Eva kept for emergencies. She grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of gauze, then returned to the sofa.
"Jacket off," she commanded.
Lucien obliged, though the movement made him hiss through his teeth. He draped the wet wool over the back of the sofa and began to undo his shirt buttons. His fingers, usually so dexterous whether picking a lock or handling a rare artifact, were clumsy.
"Stop," Rory said. She batted his hands away. "Let me."
She knelt on the rug between his spread knees. She could feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace warmth that defied the chill of the rain. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, brushing against the cold, damp skin of his chest. She tried to ignore the defined expanse of muscle, the way his breath hitched slightly as her knuckles grazed him.
She peeled the shirt back. The wound was angry , a slice just above his hip bone, but the edges were already knitting together with a faint, smoky residue.
"It’s healing," she observed, uncapping the antiseptic. "But it needs cleaning. This is going to sting."
"I have endured worse," Lucien said, watching her face.
Rory dabbed the wound. He didn't flinch, but his thigh muscles tensed against her arm. She worked efficiently, the way she used to bandage her own knees after falling off her bike in Cardiff, before life got complicated. Before Evan. Before demons.
"Why did you say it?" she asked quietly, not looking up. She concentrated on wrapping the gauze around his lean torso. "That I was a liability."
Lucien was silent for a long time. She could feel his gaze on the top of her head, heavy and tangible .
"Because you are," he said finally.
Rory froze, the end of the bandage in her hand. She looked up, her blue eyes flashing with hurt. "Then why are you here?"
"You are a liability," Lucien repeated, his voice dropping to a low, rough timbre, "because you are the only thing in this city that I cannot calculate. I deal in information, Rory. I deal in leverage and predictable outcomes. You…" He reached out, his hand hovering near her face before his long fingers brushed a strand of black hair behind her ear. His touch was electric, startlingly warm. "You make me irrational."
Rory’s breath caught. She stared at him, at the sharp angles of his face, the vulnerability in the mismatched eyes.
"You pushed me away," she whispered. "You hurt me."
"I was trying to keep you safe," he said. "From my world. From things like the creature that did this to me." He gestured vaguely to his side. "I thought if I was cruel enough, you would run. You would go back to Cardiff, or at least stay away from the shadows."
"I don't run," Rory said firmly. She finished tying the bandage, perhaps a little tighter than necessary. "Not anymore. I left one man who tried to control my life, Lucien. I’m not looking for another one to manage me, even if he thinks he’s doing it for my own good."
Lucien looked at the bandage, then back at her. A ghost of a smile touched his lips—that familiar, crooked smirk that usually drove her crazy. "I am beginning to realize that. You are remarkably stubborn, Aurora Carter."
"I'm Welsh," she countered, sitting back on her heels. "It comes with the territory."
They stayed like that for a moment, the distance between them practically nonexistent. Rory on her knees, Lucien leaning forward. The smell of the rain had faded, replaced by the scent of him—sandalwood, old parchments, and something uniquely *him*.
Lucien’s hand moved from her hair to cup her jaw. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. She leaned into the touch before she could stop herself. It would be so easy to close the gap. To let two weeks of anger and fear dissolve into something else entirely.
"I missed you," he admitted, the words sounding foreign in his mouth, as if he were testing them for the first time. "It was… unpleasant."
"Unpleasant," she deadpanned, though her heart was racing . "High praise from the Frenchman."
"I checked on you," he confessed. "Every night. I watched the restaurant from the rooftop across the street to make sure your deliveries were safe. I watched the entrance to Silas's bar."
Rory felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "Stalker."
"Guardian," he corrected softly . His thumb brushed her lower lip. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"If you ever tell me I'm a liability again," she whispered, her voice trembling, "I won't open the door next time."
"Understood," he murmured.
He leaned down. His lips brushed hers—a feather-light contact, tentative, asking for permission. Rory responded by gripping his knees, grounding herself. She kissed him back, pouring all the frustration of the last fortnight into it. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was desperate , tasting of rain and antiseptic and unresolved arguments.
Lucien groaned low in his throat, his hand tangling in her dark hair, deepening the contact. For a half-demon who prided himself on absolute control, he was shaking .
A low, guttural growl from the floor broke the spell.
They pulled apart, chests heaving. Ptolemy was standing by Rory’s knee, his ears flattened, glaring at Lucien with intense feline disapproval.
Rory let out a breath less laugh, her forehead resting against Lucien’s uninjured shoulder. "I think the cat wants you to leave."
Lucien exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, and rested his cheek against the top of her head. "Ptolemy has always been an excellent judge of character. But I am afraid he will be disappointed tonight."
Rory pulled back, looking into his face. The amber fire in his eye had dimmed to a warm, steady glow. He looked exhausted, hurt, and completely hers.
"You're staying?" she asked.
Lucien looked at the rain lashing against the window, then back at the woman who had bandaged him up and told him off in the same breath. He picked up Rorty’s hand, turning it over to press a kiss to the crescent scar on her wrist.
"If you will have me, Rory," he said quietly. "I do not think I can walk much further."
Rory stood up, her legs wobbly. She offered him a hand.
"Come on," she said, her voice soft. "You can take the bed. I'll take the sofa. But only because you're bleeding."
Lucien took her hand, his grip firm and warm. "Of course. Purely for medicinal reasons."
But as he stood, keeping his hand interlaced with hers, the air in the cramped flat felt different. The walls were still covered in dusty books, and the smell of curry still lingered, but the cold draft from the window didn't reach her anymore. The distance was closed. And for the first time since she fled Cardiff, Rory didn't feel the urge to check the locks. He was already inside.