AI The knock came again, insistent, a sharp rap of knuckles against wood that cut through the low hum of Eva’s ancient refrigerator. Rory froze, a half-eaten container of chicken tikka masala poised halfway to her mouth. It was past ten. Eva wasn’t due back from her late shift at the library for another hour, and no one else had any business at the third-floor flat on Brick Lane, especially not without calling first.
Ptolemy, the ginger tabby, lifted his head from a nest of parchment on the sofa, ears twitching. Rory set the container down on the cluttered coffee table, her appetite gone. Three deadbolts stood between her and the hallway, a security measure Eva insisted upon for a world she claimed was far stranger than Rory cared to admit. Rory’s hand went instinctively to the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, tracing the familiar ridge. A childhood reminder of a fall from a tree, but lately, it felt like a touchstone for a different kind of caution.
She crossed the small, book-choked living room, her trainers silent on the worn Persian rug. Peering through the fisheye lens, the world warped into a distorted corridor of peeling floral wallpaper. And standing in the center of it, impossibly sharp and out of place, was Lucien Moreau.
Her breath caught. It had been six months. Six months since she’d last seen him leaning against the polished bar downstairs at Silas’s place, a glass of something amber in his hand, watching her with that unreadable , dual-colored gaze. Six months of silence , of unanswered texts, of a hollow space in her life she’d tried to fill with delivery routes and takeaway containers.
He looked exactly the same. Impeccable. A charcoal suit that probably cost more than her entire year’s rent, tailored to his lean, 5’11” frame. His platinum blond hair was slicked back from his forehead, not a strand out of place. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, the picture of a man waiting patiently for an audience he had no doubt he would receive.
Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of surprise and something hotter, sharper. Attraction, yes, that old, familiar pull that had always been there, a low thrum under her skin whenever he was near. But it was layered over with a fresh coat of hurt, a residue of abandonment she’d sworn she wouldn’t feel.
She could pretend she wasn’t home. The flat was dark except for the single lamp by the sofa. He might go away.
As if reading her thoughts, his voice filtered through the solid wood, smooth as aged whiskey, laced with that faint French accent that had once made her knees weak . “Aurora. I can hear you breathing.”
Damn him. Damn his half-demon hearing. She scowled at the door, then, with a sigh of resignation, began sliding the deadbolts open. The heavy metal clunks echoed in the quiet flat. She opened the door just enough to peer out, blocking the entrance with her body.
“Lucien.” She kept her voice flat, cool. She hoped it sounded cool. It was the tone she used on difficult customers. “What do you want?”
His eyes, one a warm, molten amber, the other a bottomless black, scanned her face. They missed nothing—the takeaway container on the table, her old Cardiff University sweatshirt, the faint shadows under her blue eyes that even a cool demeanor couldn’t hide. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Not even a ‘hello’? Not even after all this time?”
“Time implies a mutual awareness of its passage,” she said, tightening her grip on the doorframe. “From my perspective, you vanished.”
“Business,” he said, the single word a well-practiced excuse. “Unavoidable.”
“In Marseille?” she asked, the name of his birthplace a deliberate prod. She remembered the stories, whispered late at night: a human mother, a demon father from a realm called Avaros.
His amber eye narrowed slightly , the only sign her barb had landed. “Among other places. May I come in? It’s a matter of some… delicacy.” He gestured with his cane, a slight, elegant movement. “And the scent of vindaloo, while intoxicating, is rather pervasive in the hall.”
Rory hesitated. Letting him in felt like a surrender, an admission that the door she’d tried so hard to close wasn’t actually locked. But standing in the hallway, having this conversation where any of Eva’s peculiar neighbors might overhear, was worse. She stepped back, pulling the door wide. “Fine. Five minutes.”
He swept past her, bringing with him the scent of cold night air, expensive cologne, and something else, something metallic and ancient that was uniquely his. He surveyed the chaotic flat with a critic’s eye, his gaze skipping over the towers of books, the scrolls cascading from chairs, the layers of dust on every surface that wasn’t part of Eva’s immediate research. Ptolemy, who usually hid from strangers, merely blinked at him from the sofa, then began washing a paw with an air of supreme indifference. Of course the cat would approve of him.
“Charming,” Lucien remarked, his tone neutral .
“It’s home,” Rory said defensively, closing the door and re-engaging the deadbolts. The sound was final, trapping them together. She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your five minutes are ticking.”
He turned from his inspection, leaning his weight on the cane. The gesture seemed more habitual than necessary . “Straight to business. I always admired that about you, Rory. Your efficiency.”
“Don’t,” she warned, the casual use of her nickname feeling like a violation. “Just say what you came to say.”
“I need your help.”
The words hung in the air , simple and unbelievable. Lucien Moreau, the most connected fixer in London’s shadowy underworld, needed help from a part-time delivery driver hiding from her past.
She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I am rarely accused of having a sense of humor.” His face was serious, the lamplight catching the sharp planes of his cheeks, deepening the darkness of his black eye. “There is an item. A text. It was… mislaid during my recent travels. It has found its way to London. I believe it is currently in the possession of one of your clients.”
“My clients?” The laugh died in her throat. “You mean the people I deliver shrimp fried rice to?”
“The Golden Empress services a more diverse clientele than you might realize,” he said smoothly. “Yu-Fei Cheung has connections that run deep. You deliver to a residence in Mayfair. A townhouse with a green door, number forty-seven.”
Rory’s mind raced , flipping through the mental map of her rounds. She knew the place. An older, reclusive gentleman who always tipped generously and never made eye contact. The orders were always large, always paid in cash. “Mr. Albright,” she murmured.
“His name is not Albright,” Lucien corrected gently . “And the text he now holds is not a cookbook. It is dangerous, Aurora. In the wrong hands, it could cause… significant disruption.”
“So go get it yourself,” she snapped, a flare of anger overriding her confusion . “Break in. Charm your way in. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re the master of getting what you want.”
He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. The air seemed to thicken. She could see the individual lashes framing his heterochromatic eyes, the faint line of a scar near his temple she’d never noticed before. “It is not that simple. The townhouse is warded. Magically sealed. My particular… heritage… sets off alarms quieter than a whisper . But a human, a simple delivery person… you could walk right through.”
“A simple delivery person,” she repeated, the words tasting bitter . “That’s all I am to you? A key for a locked door you can’t pick?”
“That is not what I meant.” His voice dropped, softened. “You are clever. You see things others miss. That is why I’m here. Not because you are simple, but because you are singular .”
The compliment, delivered with such earnest intensity , disarmed her . The anger bled away, leaving behind the raw hurt. “You left, Lucien. No call, no text. For six months. You can’t just reappear and ask me to commit burglary for you because I’m *singular *.”
His gaze dropped for a moment, a rare show of contrition. When he looked up, the mask of the unflappable broker had slipped. She saw genuine conflict in his eyes. “I had to leave. The business in Marseille… it was family. My mother.” He paused, choosing his words with uncharacteristic care. “There are debts in my world, Aurora. Old, bloody debts. My absence was a form of protection.”
“Protection?” The word was a whisper . “For who?”
“For you.” The admission hung between them, stark and undeniable. “My associates… my enemies… they see connection as vulnerability. My presence in your life painted a target on your back. A target I had to remove by removing myself.”
All the air left Rory’s lungs. The cool-headed logic she prided herself on shattered . He hadn’t vanished because she didn’t matter. He’d vanished because she did. The realization was a seismic shift, cracking open the defensive walls she’d spent months building.
“You should have told me,” she said, her voice thick .
“And put you in more danger by making you aware of it?” He shook his head. “Ignorance is a fragile shield, but it is a shield nonetheless. I thought… I thought it was better.”
“You thought wrong.” She uncrossed her arms, her hands falling uselessly to her sides. The space between them felt charged , electric with everything that had been left unsaid for half a year. The attraction she’d tried to stifle roared back to life, amplified by his proximity and this devastating confession.
He was close enough now that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. He lifted his hand, slowly , giving her every chance to pull away. His fingers, long and elegant, brushed a stray strand of black hair from her cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt straight through her .
“I am not asking for forgiveness,” he murmured, his amber eye holding hers captive while the black one seemed to see straight into her soul. “I am asking for your help. But know this, Aurora Carter. I came to you not only because you are the only one who can do this, but because these last six months have been an interminable exile. Seeing you now… it is like coming up for air.”
His words washed over her , undoing her completely . The hurt was still there, a dull ache, but it was now intertwined with a overwhelming, terrifying hope. He needed her . Not just as a tool, but as *her *.
She looked past him, at the safe, chaotic mess of Eva’s flat. She could say no. She could send him away, back into the night, and return to her chicken tikka and her uncomplicated existence. She could protect herself.
But Rory had never been particularly good at playing it safe.
Her gaze shifted back to his face, to the stark contrast of his eyes, to the faint hope she saw warring with the fear in their depths . She took a shallow breath.
“What does this text look like?”