AI The knock on the door didn’t sound like a knock; it sounded like a judgment.
It was six o’clock on a Thursday, a time when the curry house below—*Golden Empress*—would be shoving the last of the takeout bags into black plastic bins, and the street outside Brick Lane should have been a flat, rhythmic drone of exhaust and distant sirens. But through the thin floorboards of the flat, the sound had sharp edges. Three raps. Precise. Deliberate.
Aurora dropped the heavy hardback she’d been wrestling with, and it hit the floor with a dull thud, the spine groaning under the weight of a sociology textbook. She froze, her fingers hovering over the deadbolt she’d just thrown. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She didn’t have visitors. Not anymore.
Eva would have called. Evan definitely wouldn’t be standing on the other side of that door. The ex-boyfriend who thought shouting was communication had burned that bridge with plenty of fire, and Aurora wasn’t eager to stick her toe back in the water.
If it was a delivery, which was unlikely given the time, she would have heard the chime of the electronic bell. Or she would have heard the distinct, clumsy shuffle of Yu-Fei’s nephew, Dinesh.
She checked the peephole, her breath fogging the plastic lens.
The hallway light was old and flickering, casting long, stretched shadows. Standing in the gloom was a silhouette that didn't belong. The figure wasn't clutching a receipt or a uniform.
The door opened.
Lucien Moreau filled the frame, and the air in the corridor seemed to thin, the smell of London rain and damp wool replaced by the sharp, distinct scent of bergamot and ozone.
He looked worse than she had expected, which was saying something. Lucien was a creature of curated perfection—tailored charcoal suits, starched collars, shoes that looked like they had been polished with gold dust. But tonight, his suit was spotted with grime, and his hair, usually slicked back with a gel so stiff it could have stopped a bullet, was damp and straying. He held a cane, the ivory handle gleaming dully against the shadows, but it drooped in his hand as if he hadn't the strength to lift it.
"Aurora," he said. His voice was a low rumble, the kind of sound that resonated in the chest rather than the throat. He didn't wait for an invitation. He didn't ask permission.
"We have a code, Lucien," she said, though her hand remained on the deadbolt, her thumb hovering over the mechanism she’d secured three times that morning. "Three deadbolts. The apartment is Level 3 security. You know that."
"We need to talk."
"No," she said. She tried to keep her voice steady, but her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "You walked away, Lucien. You took my silence as a sign. You found me. You came to Brick Lane. And you think you can just walk through that door?"
He shifted his weight , the leather of his shoe scuffing against the scuffed linoleum of the landing. "I didn't think you’d answer."
He took a step forward, invading her personal space with a ferocity that wasn't physical, but magnetic . His heterochromatic eyes—one molten amber, the other a void of deep black— locked onto hers. They were uncanny , the kind of eyes that had stared down demons in the Avaros realm or human politicians in the City. But tonight, they looked vulnerable.
"Please," he whispered.
Aurora hated him. She really , really hated him. She hated the way his presence dismantled her defenses. She hated the way her knees, conditioned for stability and running, suddenly felt weak. She hated that, despite the heat of the room and the lingering chill of the London evening, a flush crept up her neck.
She didn't turn away. She unlocked the first deadbolt with a sharp *click*.
Lucien flinched at the sound, his hand tightening on his cane. He stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in a narrow corridor of cardboard boxes and history.
He exhaled, a long, ragged breath that seemed to deflate his whole frame. He turned to her, and the cane clattered softly against the floorboards. "I’m sorry about Ptolemy," he said immediately, sparing the cat a glance. The tabby, who was curled atop a stack of scrolls regarding supernatural politics, unspooled himself with a suspicious meow and trotted toward Lucien, sniffing his wet trench coat.
"I don't feed him to you," Aurora muttered, reaching for the second deadbolt.
"Rory," he said.
She froze, the metal of the bolt cool against her palm. He never used her proper name anymore. It was always *Aurora* or *Carter* when they were in the field, or *Luc* when they were alone and trying to keep things casual. *Rory* was territory she had claimed for herself, a safe word she used to fend him off.
"Don't call me that," she said, her voice cracking.
"Open the door, Rory." He took a step closer, close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the faint dusting of golden eyelashes. "There are people asking questions. About Avaros. About your friend Eva."
That pulled the trigger. "Eva is safe. Silas is watching her place."
"They want to know who you work for," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous and dark. "They think you stole something from me."
Aurora let the remaining two deadbolts drop. She stood back, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "I don't work for anyone. I drive a scooter and deliver Nasi Goreng."
"And yet," Lucien said, running a hand through his damp hair, leaving it spiky and unkempt, "you have documents in your safe deposit box. Files I gave you. Wills I wrote for you years ago. You keep them locked away in this chaotic little nest of yours, pretending you're just a law student hiding from a bad breakup."
He turned fully into the flat, looking around at the chaos that was her sanctuary . The bookshelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound texts. Sticky notes clung to the radiator. The air smelled of dust, tea, and the distinct, slightly metallic tang of the rain he’d just walked through.
He looked overwhelmed by it, yet strangely at home.
"It’s not chaos," she snapped, though she felt small under his scrutiny. "It’s order. You wouldn't understand."
"I understand that you are terrified," he countered.
The accusation landed like a physical blow. She looked away, toward the window where the streetlights from the curry house across the street cast fractured rainbows on the glass.
"I'm not afraid of Avaros, Lucien. I’m afraid of the silence. I’m afraid that you’ll disappear like you did before. You left without a word. I found out you were half-demon only because a contact in the City told me you’d been sighted at a gala. A gala! You were wearing a tuxedo while my life was falling apart."
She whipped around to face him. "My apartment was broken into. Evan’s friends roughed me up. I needed you, and you were eating canapés with politicians."
He flinched, the amber eye dimming for a second before reigniting with a furious, painful light. "I was trying to protect you. From them. From myself."
They were circling each other, the air between them charged with the kind of static that comes before a storm. She was a lawyer’s daughter, trained to de-escalate, to find the logic in chaos. But this was illogical. This was Lucien.
"Protect me?" She laughed, a brittle, harsh sound. "You think that’s what this is?"
He stepped into her personal bubble. He was tall, bordering on intimidating, his height a shield she had always found herself leaning against. Now, he loomed over her. He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek, and she couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
"Look at me, Rory."
She forced her eyes up to meet his black eye. It was void-like, pulling her in. The amber eye burned with a molten intensity that seared through her defenses.
"I came back because I knew you’d leave if I came for you with men in suits. I came back because I need you to look at me and decide if you’re staying." His hand moved, gentle, calloused pads brushing against the skin of her wrist.
She instinctively pulled back, remembering the crescent-shaped scar there, the tiny bump of healed bone. He noticed immediately.
"Sorry," he muttered, his thumb brushing over the scar, a ghost of a caress. "I’m sorry for the scar. I’m sorry for everything. I was arrogant. I thought I could control it. The demon part. I thought keeping you at a distance would keep you safe."
"Control?" She scoffed, but there was no heat in it. Only exhaustion. "You can't control a storm, Lucien. You can only get wet."
He took her hands in his. His grip was firm, dominant, yet his touch was surprisingly tender. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her knuckles. "I can protect you from the storm, though. I can hold you until it passes."
The world narrowed down to the space between them. The smell of rain and bergamot. The rhythmic ticking of the clock above the fireplace. The warmth of his skin seeping into hers.
A part of her—a traitorous, hungry part—wanted to believe him. It wanted to believe that he could be the anchor in the chaotic ocean of her life. But she was wary. She had been broken once, and she wasn't sure she had enough pieces left to be whole again.
"You look terrible," she whispered.
He smiled then, a crooked, weary thing that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "And you look beautiful," he countered smoothly.
"Liar."
"Aurora," he said, leaning in until his forehead rested against hers. "The reason I’m here isn't just because of the monsters in the shadows. It’s because I spent three months in Avaros without you, and I realized that the silence is worse than the noise. I realized that the only place I feel safe is in the middle of your mess."
She closed her eyes. She felt the heat of his breath, warm against her cool skin. She heard Ptolemy scratching at Lucien’s shin, a distraction, but a necessary one. It forced her back to the present moment, forced her to remember that this was real.
He wasn't just a memory anymore. He was standing here, in her flat, wet and broken.
The code of the door was still open, the three deadbolts hanging loose. It was the only way in, but it was also the only way out.
"Lucien," she breathed.
"Stay," he commanded softly .
He shifted his weight , the cane thumping against the floor as he braced himself. He wasn't asking for permission. He was offering an ultimatum wrapped in velvet . He knew who she was—the girl who solved problems, the girl who quick-thoughted her way out of trouble. He knew she wouldn't run from a fight she could win, especially if the cost of winning was a warm hand in hers.
Aurora reached out, unclenching her arms. She let her hands settle on his lapels, smoothing the fabric of his charcoal suit, feeling the solid weight of him beneath. She felt the thrum of his heart, fast and loud, matching hers.
"I’m not giving you a clean slate," she said, her voice trembling but resolute.
"No," he agreed, pressing his mouth to the space just below her ear, a kiss that tasted of rain and desperation. "You never do."
He turned his head, pressing a lingering kiss to her wrist where the faint scar lay. "But you’ll let me stay on the floor."
Aurora looked at the mess around them—books scattered, takeaway boxes waiting to be thrown away, the floorboards that needed sanding. She looked at Lucien, this man who was half-demon, half-legends, who terrified her and tempted her in equal measure.
"I need a glass of wine," she said, her voice sounding detached, professional.
"I’ll pour it," he said, stepping away to retrieve a bottle from the small kitchenette, his cane tapping a rhythmic beat against the floor.
"I need it dry," she added.
Lucien paused, one hand on the back of a kitchen chair. He looked over his shoulder, the amber eye gleaming in the dim light, and gave her a look that was purely, devastatingly male.
"It will be dry, darling. It always is."
As he moved to open the wine, Aurora leaned back against the doorframe, watching the way his broad shoulders filled the doorway, realizing that while she couldn't control the storm, she had just found the umbrella. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't want to run for cover.