AI The door swung open with a sharp *click* of the deadbolts, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, all tailored charcoal and sharp edges, one amber eye catching the dim hallway light while the other remained a void. The scent of rain and something darker, like burnt sugar, rolled off him, cutting through the stale air of the flat. Rory’s fingers tightened around the doorknob, her pulse kicking against her throat.
“You,” she said, because of course it was him. Of *course* it was him, standing there like he hadn’t vanished from her life six months ago without so much as a goodbye.
Lucien’s mouth quirked, just slightly , as if he’d expected the greeting. “*Bonjour*, Aurora.” His voice was smooth, that accented purr that had once made her stomach flip. Now it just made her want to slam the door in his face.
She didn’t. Because that would’ve been childish. And because, despite everything, she wasn’t stupid enough to turn away a half-demon who could probably pick the locks before she’d even finished dialing 999.
Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, slinked between her ankles, tail flicking with disdain. Rory stepped back, letting the cat escape into the hallway before Lucien could notice. The last thing she needed was him charming the damn feline into betraying her.
“What do you want?” she asked, crossing her arms. The flat was a mess—books stacked precariously on the sofa, takeaway containers from Golden Empress littering the coffee table, Eva’s latest research notes scattered like confetti. She hadn’t expected company. Especially not *him*.
Lucien’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, taking in the chaos with that infuriatingly calm assessment of his. “May I come in?”
“No.”
A beat. Then, slower, like he was explaining something to a particularly dense child: “Aurora. It’s raining.”
She glanced past him. Sure enough, the Brick Lane pavement glistened under the streetlamps, and the distant *hiss* of tires on wet asphalt carried through the open door. A drop of water slid from the brim of his hat—when had he even put that on?—and landed on the welcome mat with a soft *plink*.
Rory exhaled through her nose. “Fine. But you’re not staying.”
Lucien stepped inside, shaking the rain from his shoulders like a dog. The movement was deliberate, almost theatrical, and she knew—*knew*—he was doing it just to annoy her. The flat suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker, like the space itself was holding its breath.
She shut the door harder than necessary. The deadbolts *thunked* back into place.
Lucien set his cane against the wall—ivory handle gleaming , blade hidden—and peeled off his gloves, finger by finger. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
“No, I haven’t.” A lie. She’d ignored the last three.
He shot her a look. “You hung up on me.”
“You called at three in the morning.”
“*Three-thirty.*” His lips twitched. “And you *did* answer.”
Rory turned away, busying herself with clearing a stack of books from the armchair. “What do you want, Lucien?”
Silence. Then, quieter: “I need your help.”
She stilled. That wasn’t what she’d expected. Not from him. Not after the way things had ended—with her storming out of his office, his voice low and dangerous as he’d told her to *leave it alone*.
She set the books down with a thud. “No.”
“You haven’t even heard what it is.”
“I don’t care.” She faced him, chin lifted. “Last time I helped you, I nearly got my throat slit by a vampire.”
Lucien’s expression darkened. “That was an *anomaly*.”
“*An anomaly?*” Her voice rose. “Lucien, he *bit me*.”
“And I handled it.” His tone was sharp, final. Like the matter was closed.
Rory laughed, short and humorless. “Oh, right. Because *you* handling things always works out so well for me.”
Something flickered in his gaze—guilt? Irritation?—before it smoothed back into that infuriating mask of calm. “This isn’t about that.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He hesitated. Just for a second. But she caught it.
“There’s a job,” he said finally. “A retrieval. Something was taken from me. Something *important*.”
Rory arched a brow. “And you can’t retrieve it yourself?”
“I could.” His fingers tapped once against his thigh. “But it would be… *messy*.”
“Messy how?”
“The less you know, the better.”
She scoffed. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to waltz in here after six months of radio silence, drop cryptic hints, and expect me to just—what? Jump when you say jump?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to jump. I’m asking for your *skills*.”
“*Skills*?” She spread her arms. “I deliver takeaway, Lucien. I’m not a bloody spy.”
“You’re *smart*.” The words came out rough, like he hadn’t meant to say them. “You think fast. You notice things. And you’re *discreet*.”
Rory stared at him. The compliment—if that’s what it was—hung between them, heavy and unwanted. She didn’t want to be flattered. She didn’t want to *care*.
But she did.
Damn him.
She turned away, running a hand through her hair. The flat was too warm, too small. She could feel him watching her, those mismatched eyes tracking her every move.
“Why me?” she asked quietly.
Lucien didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “Because I trust you.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut.
She whirled on him. “You *what*?”
His expression didn’t change, but his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. “You heard me.”
“*Trust*?” Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “You don’t *trust* people, Lucien. You *use* them. You *manipulate* them. You—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything.”
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “And what, exactly, is *everything*, Aurora?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Because the truth was, she didn’t even know anymore.
Six months ago, she would’ve had an answer. Six months ago, she would’ve thrown it in his face—the way he’d shut her out, the way he’d let her walk away without a fight, the way he’d made her feel like she was *nothing* to him.
But now?
Now she just felt tired.
She sank onto the arm of the sofa, suddenly exhausted. “You should go.”
Lucien didn’t move. “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
“Then you’ll be here a long time.”
He exhaled, sharp and frustrated, and for the first time since he’d walked in, she saw the cracks in his composure. The way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled into his palms like he was fighting the urge to *grab* something. To *grab her*.
The thought sent a traitorous shiver down her spine.
“Fine,” she said, because she was weak, because she was *stupid*, because some masochistic part of her still wanted to hear what he had to say. “Talk. But make it quick.”
Lucien studied her for a long moment, like he was deciding how much to tell her. Then, slowly , he reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph.
Rory took it, her fingers brushing his. A static shock jumped between them, sharp and unexpected. She ignored it.
The photo was grainy, taken from a distance. A man—no, not a man. Something *else*. His skin was too pale, his eyes too dark, his smile too wide. He was holding something in his hands, something small and glinting .
“Who is he?” she asked.
“His name is Veles.” Lucien’s voice was tight. “He’s a collector. And he took something from me.”
Rory looked up. “What?”
Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers. “A key.”
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
“A *key*?” she repeated. “To what?”
“That’s not important.”
“*Not important?*” She tossed the photo onto the coffee table. “Lucien, I’m not helping you steal back some random key unless you tell me what it *does*.”
His jaw clenched . “It’s not *random*.”
“Then what is it?”
Silence. Then, quieter: “It’s the only thing keeping my father from crossing over.”
Rory stilled.
She knew about his father. Knew the half-demon had been trapped in the demon realm of Avaros for decades, bound by some ancient magic. Knew Lucien had spent years trying to find a way to free him.
But she also knew the cost.
“You’re not serious,” she said.
Lucien’s expression was grim. “I am.”
“Lucien, if you let him out—”
“*I know.*” His voice was sharp, cutting her off. “But it’s my choice to make.”
Rory shook her head. “This is a bad idea.”
“It’s the *only* idea.” His fingers curled into fists. “Veles has the key. And I need it back.”
She studied him—the tension in his shoulders, the way his heterochromatic eyes burned with something raw and desperate. She’d seen Lucien angry. She’d seen him cold. She’d even seen him *vulnerable*, once, in the dark of his office, his guard down just long enough for her to glimpse the man beneath the mask.
But she’d never seen him like this.
Like he was *begging *.
The realization settled in her chest, heavy and unwanted.
She looked away, her gaze landing on the photo again. On the thing in Veles’s hands.
“What does it look like?” she asked quietly.
Lucien’s breath hitched, just slightly . “A locket. Silver. Engraved with a raven.”
Rory closed her eyes.
She knew that locket .
She’d seen it before—once, in Lucien’s office, tucked away in a drawer like a secret. He’d never explained what it was. She’d never asked.
But she remembered the way his fingers had trembled when he’d touched it.
“You’re sure it’s the same one?” she asked.
“Positive.”
She exhaled, long and slow. “And you want *me* to get it back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only one I trust to do it *without* getting killed.”
She should’ve said no.
She should’ve told him to leave, to find someone else, to *rot* for all she cared.
But the words died in her throat.
Because she remembered the way he’d looked at her that night in his office. The way his voice had cracked when he’d said her name.
And because, despite everything, she still *cared*.
“Fine,” she said, the word tasting like ash. “But I’m doing this *my* way. And if I say we walk, we *walk*. No arguments.”
Lucien’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly . “Agreed.”
She stood, putting distance between them. “And you’re buying me dinner first. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Deal.”
Rory turned away, busying herself with straightening the already-straightened books on the shelf. She could feel his gaze on her, heavy and warm.
“Aurora.”
She didn’t look at him. “What?”
A pause. Then, softer: “Thank you.”
She swallowed.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “You haven’t seen my bill.”
Lucien chuckled, low and rough. The sound sent a shiver down her spine.
She ignored it.
Because this was business.
Nothing more.