AI The knock on the door was wrong. It wasn’t Eva’s cheerful, syncopated rap, or the heavy, impatient thud of a takeaway delivery. This was three sharp, precise, almost arrogant taps. Rory, curled on the lumpy sofa with a volume of pre-Roman Celtic folklore, went still. Ptolemy, the tabby, raised his head from her lap, ears swiveling toward the sound.
Her heart did a slow, heavy roll in her chest. No one else came here. Eva was a fortress of esoteric knowledge and strange hours, not a social hub. The knock came again, identical, a demand more than a request.
Setting the heavy book aside, she padded to the door, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. Her fingers hesitated over the three deadbolts, a cold prickle of unease tracing her spine. She peered through the fisheye lens, the world distorting into a warped, circular view of the dimly lit hallway.
And there he was.
Lucien Moreau.
The breath caught in her throat. He looked exactly the same, which was its own particular kind of insult. Impeccable. A charcoal suit that cost more than her entire year's rent, tailored to fit his lean frame like a second skin. His platinum hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. He held his ivory-handled cane lightly in one gloved hand, his expression one of bored patience, as if he were waiting for a tardy subordinate and not standing outside a book-cluttered flat in East London.
Her hand trembled as she slid the first bolt back. The rasp of metal was loud in the tense silence . Then the second. The third. She took a steadying breath, the ghost of the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist seeming to pulse , a reminder of older, simpler hurts. She pulled the door open a few inches, the chain still latched.
The hallway’s poor lighting did nothing to diminish him . Up close, she saw the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the only crack in the perfect facade . And then there were the eyes themselves: one a warm, startling amber, the other a void of absolute black. They fixed on her now, and the bored patience evaporated, replaced by an unnerving intensity .
"Aurora," he said. Her name was a soft exhale on his lips, flavored with that faint, unshakable French accent. It sounded like a relic, a thing she hadn't realized she’d missed hearing.
"Lucien." Her voice was flat, a defensive wall she’d spent months building. "What are you doing here?"
"A social call," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking. It wasn't quite a smile. It was the ghost of one, the echo of a dozen shared secrets and one spectacular, painful ending.
"This isn't a social neighborhood. You stick out like a diamond in a coal mine." She made no move to unlatch the chain.
"Charming as ever, *ma chère *. May I come in? I assure you, my business is... pressing." His gaze flickered past her, taking in the teetering stacks of books, the scrolls spilling off the coffee table, the tabby cat now observing him with feline disdain from the back of the sofa. "I see your taste in accommodations remains... eclectic."
"It's Eva's. I'm just... staying." The admission felt like a weakness . He knew why she'd left Cardiff. He knew about Evan. He’d been the one to help her vanish, a fact that now felt like a hookAfter a long moment, her fingers fumbled with the chain. It slid free with a final, metallic clink. She opened the door fully and stepped back, granting him entry into the small, chaotic space.
He moved past her, and the air in the room changed. It became charged , thinner. He brought the scent of rain, expensive cologne, and something else, something metallic and old—the scent of his other half, the part he tried so hard to conceal beneath Savile Row tailoring. He made the cramped flat seem even smaller, his presence overwhelming the clutter.
He didn't sit. He leaned his cane against the arm of the sofa and began to slowly remove his leather gloves, finger by finger. The ritual of it was infuriatingly deliberate. Ptolemy gave a low growl.
"He doesn't care for new people," Rory said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Animals are often the best judges of character," Lucien replied mildly, placing the gloves neatly on a stack of books about Mesopotamian demonology. "It seems I am found wanting."
"What do you want, Lucien?"
He turned to face her fully, his heterochromatic gaze trapping hers. "I need your particular talents, Rory."
A cold laugh escaped her. "My talents? You mean my ability to deliver pork buns and spring rolls without spilling the sweet and sour sauce? I'm afraid I'm booked solid."
"Don't be obtuse. It doesn't suit you." His voice had lost its playful edge, turning serious, hard. "The thinking. The quick, lateral thinking that sees solutions in the cracks everyone else overlooks. I have a problem."
"And I'm sure you have a dozen half-demons, witches, and information brokers who can solve it for you. You don't need me ." She turned away, pretending to straighten a pile of papers that didn't need straightening. She could feel his eyes on her back, could feel the weight of all the things they hadn't said the last time they stood in a room together.
"I do need you," he said, and the simple admission was so unlike him that it made her still. "This is... delicate. It involves a book. An old one. One that shouldn't be in the hands it's currently in."
She turned back. "So steal it. That's what you do."
"It's not that simple. The... individual who has it is protected. Magically, physically. A direct approach is impossible. It requires finesse. It requires a mind they won't see coming." He took a step toward her. The space between them shrank, charged with the memory of the last time he’d been this close. The heat of his hand on the small of her back as they’d ducked through a hidden door in an alleyway. The way his amber eye had seemed to glow in the dark.
"You left, Lucien." The words were out before she could stop them, sharp and wounded. "You got what you needed from that job and you were just... gone. No word. Nothing."
A shadow crossed his face. "It was for the best."
"For whom? You?"
"For you!" The words were a sudden, sharp crack in his controlled demeanor. He ran a hand through his perfect hair, a rare sign of agitation. "That job, the things we did... it attracted attention. The wrong kind. The kind that doesn't just go away. My disappearing act was a distraction. A lure. I led them on a merry chase across three continents so they would follow *me * and not look back at the brilliant, infuriatingly clever human girl who helped me ."
She stared at him , the defensive wall she’d so carefully maintained showing its first fissures. The anger was still there, a hot coal in her stomach , but now it was mixed with something else, something frighteningly like hope. "You... you never said."
"Would you have believed me ?" he asked softly , taking another step. He was close enough now that she could see the faint striations of gold in his amber eye, the impossible depth of the black one. He smelled of danger and safety all at once, a paradox she had never been able to resolve . "You were so angry. So hurt. You thought I'd used you and discarded you. It was a more effective cover story than anything I could have invented."
He lifted a hand, slowly , as if approaching a skittish animal . His fingertips brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was electric , a jolt that went straight through her. She flinched, but didn't pull away.
"I thought about you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble . "Every damn day. Wondering if you were safe. If you were happy delivering those damned noodles."
The confession hung between them, fragile and immense. All the unsaid things rushed into the space: the attraction that had hummed between them during late-night planning sessions, the way his laughter had felt like a rare victory, the devastating emptiness she’d felt when he was gone .
"You hurt me ," she whispered, the words thick.
"I know." His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. His touch was warmer than a human's, a testament to the fire in his blood. "And I would do it again if it meant keeping you safe. But I am here now, asking for your help, because there is no one else I trust. And because this... this thing between us isn't finished."
His head dipped, his forehead resting against hers. She could feel the tension in him , the careful leash he kept on his power, on his desire . Her own resistance crumbled, the careful architecture of her anger collapsing into dust. She had missed this. Missed *him *. The intelligence, the danger, the frustrating, intoxicating complexity of him .
"Tell me about the book," she said, her voice barely a breath .
A genuine smile, small and relieved, touched his lips. "It's tedious. Dangerous. And it will require every ounce of that magnificent mind of yours."
"Good," she said. And then, before she could lose her nerve, she closed the final inch between them and kissed him .
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was months of frustration, of hurt and longing, poured into a single, searing connection. His arms went around her, crushing her to him , his cane forgotten on the floor. He kissed her back with a desperation that mirrored her own, a hunger that spoke of things denied for far too long. Outside, the London rain began to fall, tapping against the windowpane of the cluttered, book-strewn flat, sealing them in their own temporary, complicated world.