AI The third deadbolt clicked open with a sound like a bone snapping, followed by the second, then the first. Rory gripped the edge of the doorframe, her knuckles whitening against the peeling paint as she pulled the heavy timber inward. The smell of cumin and turmeric from the curry house below drifted up through the floorboards, a familiar, grounding scent that usually signaled the end of a long delivery shift. Tonight, it felt suffocating.
Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold of Eva's cramped flat, blocking the hallway light with his broad shoulders. He looked exactly as he had three years ago, and yet entirely different. The tailored charcoal suit was sharper, the fabric seemingly absorbing the dim light of the stairwell rather than reflecting it. His platinum hair was slicked back with military precision, revealing the stark , angular lines of a face that had haunted Rory's quieter moments more than she cared to admit.
"You're blocking the draft," Rory said, her voice steady despite the sudden hammering of her heart against her ribs. She stepped back, gesturing him in with a sharp flick of her wrist. "Come in before Ptolemy decides you're a new scratching post."
Lucien moved with a fluid grace that belied the ivory-handled cane he leaned upon. He stepped inside, the tip of the cane clicking softly against the linoleum. As he passed her, the air grew colder, carrying the faint, metallic scent of ozone and something older, like dried blood and expensive cologne. He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one void-black—scanned the room, taking in the towers of books, the scrolls unfurled across the coffee table, and the research notes pinned to every available inch of wall space.
"Charming," Lucien murmured, his French accent clipping the edges of the word. "Still living in a paper fortress, I see."
"It's Eva's fortress," Rory corrected, closing the door and engaging the first lock. Her hands trembled slightly , so she shoved them into the pockets of her delivery jacket. "I'm just the tenant above Silas' bar who crashes here when the noise gets too loud. Or when I need to hide."
Lucien turned then, and the full weight of his gaze hit her. It was a physical pressure, heavy and intimate. He rested the cane against his leg, his fingers tightening around the ivory handle. "Hiding from whom, Aurora? Or from what?"
He never used her full name unless he was angry , or afraid. The usage sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill he brought with him. She walked past him to the small kitchenette, needing the busywork of filling the kettle to keep from doing something foolish, like reaching out to touch the lapel of his jacket.
"From Evan," she said simply, keeping her back to him. "From my parents asking why I dropped out of Pre-Law. From the fact that delivering dumplings for Yu-Fei pays the rent but doesn't fill the void. Take your pick."
"The abusive ex is gone, yes? You fled Cardiff for a reason."
"He's gone. I'm safe." She turned, leaning her hips against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. "Unlike some people, I don't have a demon father from Avaros to complicate my safety protocols. I just have three deadbolts and a very judgmental tabby cat."
As if on cue, Ptolemy emerged from behind a stack of theology textbooks. The tabby stretched, yawned, and then froze, his tail twitching as he spotted the half-demon in the room. A low growl rumbled in the cat's chest, but Lucien merely glanced down, his expression unreadable .
"Even the beast remembers me," Lucien noted dryly.
"Ptolemy remembers every one who smells like sulfur," Rory countered. "Why are you here, Lucien? We said every thing there was to say in that alleyway behind the opera house. You walked away. I stayed behind. It was a clean break."
"Clean?" Lucien let out a short, humorless laugh. He limped forward, the injury in his leg subtle but present, a reminder of the night they parted. "There was nothing clean about it, Rory. It was a massacre of silence. You looked at me with those bright blue eyes as if I were a stranger, and I..." He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I could not bear to watch you pretend."
"I wasn't pretending." The lie tasted like ash in her mouth. She pushed off the counter and walked toward the center of the room, stopping just out of arm's reach. The space between them crackled, charged with the history of stolen glances in crowded pubs, the heat of his hand on the small of her back, and the crushing realization that his world was one she could never truly inhabit. "I was surviving. There's a difference."
Lucien studied her, his gaze dropping to her left wrist where the sleeve of her jacket had ridden up. The small, crescent-shaped scar from her childhood accident was visible against her pale skin. He reached out, his hand hovering before he gently caught her wrist. His fingers were cool, contrasting with the sudden flush of heat that rushed to her face.
"You are trembling," he whispered.
"I'm cold. This flat is drafty."
"Do not lie to me, Laila."
The use of the alias, a name only he knew from the night they shared a bottle of wine and secrets under the stars in Marseille, broke her composure. Her breath hitched. She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip, though gentle, was unyielding.
"Why now?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Three years, Lucien. Not a letter, not a call. And now you show up looking like you stepped out of a GQ spread for the damned, expecting me to just... what? Fall into your arms?"
"I expected you to be alive," he said, his voice rough. "The underworld is shifting. Things are moving in London that smell of Avaros. When I heard rumors of a human woman with quick wits and a penchant for getting into trouble near Brick Lane, I had to see for myself. I had to know if the stories were about you."
"So you're here on business?" Rory pulled her hand free, wrapping her arms around herself again as if to hold her pieces together. "Is that it? The great fixer needs information, and I'm the local contact?"
Lucien sighed, the sound weary and old. He moved to the window, looking out at the rain-slicked streets of East London. The neon sign of the curry house below cast a red glow across his profile. "I am here because I am a fool. Because every time I close my eyes, I see you standing in that alley, telling me to go back to the shadows where I belong. And I realized, quite belatedly, that I have spent an eternity in the shadows. I wanted to see the light again. Even if it burns."
Rory watched him, the defensiveness draining out of her, leaving behind a raw, aching vulnerability. She remembered the way he had looked at her that night in Marseille, as if she were the only real thing in a world of illusions. She remembered the pain of letting him go, convinced that loving a half-demon would only get her killed or worse, dragged into a war she didn't understand.
"You can't just walk back in, Lucien," she said softly . "My life is different now. I'm not the girl who dreamed of being a barrister anymore. I deliver food. I hide in my friend's flat. I'm tired."
"And I am not the man who thought he could save every one," he replied, turning back to her. He took a step closer, then another, until the distance between them was negligible. She could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the depth of the black in the other. "But perhaps we can be tired together. Just for tonight."
He reached out again, this time brushing a stray strand of her straight, shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. His touch was tentative, asking a question he was too proud to speak aloud. Rory looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of deception, any hint of the darkness that lurked within his bloodline. She found only a profound , weary longing that mirrored her own.
The kettle behind her began to whistle, a shrill, piercing sound that shattered the moment. Neither of them moved to turn it off.
"One night," Rory said, her voice barely audible over the steam rising from the spout. "You explain every thing. You tell me why you really came. And then..."
"And then?" Lucien prompted, his gaze intense.
"And then we see if the deadbolts are enough to keep the rest of the world out," she finished.
Lucien's lips curved into a faint, genuine smile, the first she had seen in three years. It transformed his face, softening the sharp edges of the fixer and revealing the man beneath. He offered her his arm, a formal, old-world gesture that felt absurdly perfect in the cluttered, chaotic flat.
"Shall we?" he asked.
Rory looked at his arm, then up at his eyes. She took a deep breath, smelling the ozone and rain and him. Slowly, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid muscle beneath the charcoal wool.
"Make the tea first," she said, a small smile tugging at her own lips. "Then we talk."
"As you wish," Lucien replied, and together they moved toward the kitchen, the past and present colliding in the small, warm space, leaving the cold London night outside the three deadbolts.