AI The knock came at half past midnight, three sharp raps that cut through the ambient noise of Brick Lane. Aurora paused, chopsticks hovering over her takeaway container. Nobody visited Eva's flat this late—especially not when Eva was in Prague chasing down some thirteenth-century grimoire.
She set down the noodles and crept to the door, pressing her eye to the peephole. Her stomach dropped.
Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow hallway, platinum hair gleaming under the flickering fluorescent light. His charcoal suit looked immaculate despite the late hour, though she noticed his ivory-handled cane bore more weight than usual.
Aurora's hand hesitated on the first deadbolt. Six months. Six months since she'd told him exactly what she thought of his manipulative games, his careful omissions, his—
Another knock, softer this time. "Rory. I know you're there."
That accent still did things to her pulse she'd rather not examine. She flipped the deadbolts—all three—and cracked the door, keeping the chain on. "Eva's in Prague."
"I'm not here for Eva." His heterochromatic eyes found hers, amber and black in the dim light. A thin cut traced his left cheekbone, still fresh enough to glisten.
"Then you've wasted a trip." She started to close the door, but his hand shot out, palm flat against the wood.
"Please." The word came out rough, un-Lucien-like in its rawness. "Five minutes."
She should slam the door. She should tell him to go to hell—though given his parentage, that might be redundant. Instead, she found herself studying that cut on his face, the slight tremor in his cane hand, the way his usually perfect hair had begun to escape its styling.
"You're bleeding," she said.
"Occupational hazard." His lips quirked in that half-smile she'd once found irresistible. Now it just made her angry.
"Not my problem anymore."
"No," he agreed quietly . "It's not."
Something in his tone made her pause. Lucien Moreau never admitted defeat, never showed weakness. Yet here he stood, bleeding and favoring his left leg, asking for five minutes like a man out of options.
Ptolemy chose that moment to wind around her ankles, meowing plaintively. The traitorous cat had always liked Lucien.
"Five minutes," she said, unhooking the chain . "And you're not dripping blood on Eva's carpet."
He stepped inside, movements careful and controlled. Up close, she could see the damage better—the cut on his cheek, yes, but also the way he held his right arm close to his body, the slight hitch in his breathing that suggested bruised ribs.
"Bathroom," she ordered, locking the door behind him. "Eva keeps a first aid kit under the sink."
He followed her through the maze of books and research materials, his cane tapping a syncopated rhythm on the hardwood. The bathroom was barely large enough for one person; with both of them, the space felt charged , electric .
Aurora grabbed the kit and pointed to the toilet lid. "Sit."
"I didn't come here for—"
"Sit, Lucien, or get out."
He sat, setting his cane carefully against the wall. She pulled on latex gloves with perhaps more force than necessary and tilted his face toward the light. The cut was clean but deep, already trying to heal with that unsettling demon quickness.
"Who?" she asked, dabbing antiseptic on a cotton pad.
"The Corvelli family discovered I'd been feeding them false information about their smuggling routes." He didn't flinch as she cleaned the wound, though his jaw tightened. "They expressed their disappointment enthusiastically."
"And you came here?" She pressed a butterfly bandage over the cut, trying to ignore how familiar this felt—patching him up after whatever scheme had gone sideways. "To Eva's flat, where anyone could have followed you?"
"I wasn't followed."
"You can't know that."
His hand caught her wrist, gentle but firm. "Rory. I wasn't followed."
She jerked away, stripping off the gloves. "Right. Because you're always so careful. So calculating . Never a move without three contingency plans."
"You're angry."
"Brilliant deduction." She threw the gloves in the bin harder than necessary. "What gave it away? The part where I haven't spoken to you in six months, or the part where I'm only helping you now because I'm not a complete monster?"
He stood slowly , reaching for his cane. "I should go."
"You should." But she didn't move from the doorway, blocking his exit. "Why are you really here, Lucien?"
His eyes—one amber, one black—met hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "The Corvellis know about you."
Ice flooded her veins. "What?"
"They know you were involved in disrupting their operations last winter. They know where you live, where you work." His knuckles whitened on the cane handle. "I've been keeping them distracted, feeding them false leads, but after tonight..."
"You've been protecting me." The words tasted bitter. "For six months, you've been—why? Why would you do that?"
"You know why."
"No, I really don't." The anger was easier than the alternative, easier than acknowledging the fear threading through her chest. "You made it very clear that I was just another asset, another piece on your chessboard—"
"You were never that." The words came out sharp, almost angry. "Whatever else you think of me, whatever lies you believe I told, you were never just an asset."
"Then what was I?" She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint demonic flame that flickered in his black eye when his control slipped. "What am I?"
He laughed, short and humorless. "The one thing I couldn't plan for. The variable that ruined every carefully laid scheme, simply by existing."
"Don't." She backed away, hitting the sink. "Don't do this now. Don't show up bleeding and tell me the Corvellis want me dead and then—"
"I love you."
The words hung between them like a blade.
"I have loved you," he continued, voice steady despite the way his hand trembled on the cane, "since the moment you threw a pint of Guinness in my face for lying about that pixie trafficking ring. I love your quick thinking and your terrible jokes and the way you eat lo mein with chopsticks even though you're awful at it. I love that you see through every facade I've ever constructed and still somehow thought I was worth knowing."
Aurora's throat burned. "You lied to me. About the trafficking ring, about your connections, about—"
"Yes." No excuses, no justifications. Just that single word, heavy with regret.
"You used me to get to the Corvelli shipment."
"Initially." He took a step closer, and she had nowhere left to retreat. "But by then, it was already too late. You'd already—" He stopped, jaw working. "It doesn't matter. I came to warn you. Pack what you need. I have a safe house prepared."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Rory—"
"No." The word came out stronger than she felt. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to waltz back into my life because some crime family wants me dead. I've handled worse than the Corvellis."
"Not like this." His hand rose like he might touch her face, then dropped. "They have a blood mage, Rory. One drop of your blood and they can track you anywhere. Kill you from across the city."
The fear she'd been suppressing bloomed cold in her chest. Blood magic was old, dangerous, and very , very illegal. "How long do I have?"
"They'll move at dawn. They always do—something about the symbolic nature of new light bringing judgment." His laugh was bitter . "Criminals and their dramatics."
Dawn. Less than five hours.
"Eva's wards—"
"Won't hold against blood magic. You know this."
She did. Eva's protections were strong but specific, designed for the everyday supernatural threats of London. Blood magic was different. Older. Darker.
Ptolemy meowed from the doorway, tail swishing anxiously .
"Where's this safe house?" she asked finally.
Relief flickered across his features before he controlled it. "Southwark. Warded by someone who owes me enough favors to keep quiet."
"And after? Once the Corvellis realize I've gone to ground?"
"I'll handle them."
"Like you handled them tonight?" She gestured to his injuries.
"Tonight I was caught off guard. That won't happen again." The black eye flared brighter, a promise of violence barely contained. "Pack light. We leave in twenty minutes."
"We?" She pushed past him, heading for Eva's bedroom where she'd been sleeping. "I don't recall agreeing to 'we.'"
He followed, that damned cane tapping against the floor. "You think I'd take you to the safe house and leave? They'll use you to get to me, Rory. The moment they realize I care—"
"Do you?" She yanked a duffel bag from under the bed, shoving clothes in without looking at him. "Because six months ago, you made it very clear that caring was a liability in your line of work."
"I was trying to protect you."
"By breaking my heart?" The words escaped before she could stop them, raw and honest in the cluttered bedroom.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by Ptolemy's anxious pacing.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It seemed kinder than letting you love someone who could only bring danger to your door. Yet here we are, danger at your door anyway, and I... I find I'm too selfish to stay away any longer."
She zipped the bag with shaking hands. "This doesn't change anything. Once the Corvelli situation is handled, we're done. I go back to my life, you go back to yours."
"If that's what you want."
"It is." She grabbed her jacket, her keys, the small knife Eva had enchanted for her. "Let's go."
But as they prepared to leave Eva's flat, Aurora caught sight of them in the hallway mirror—her with her hastily packed bag and sleep-mussed hair, him elegant even when injured, both of them reflected in the glass like some twisted portrait. The woman who'd learned to guard her heart and the half-demon who'd taught her why.
"For what it's worth," Lucien said softly , meeting her eyes in the mirror, "breaking your heart broke mine too."
She looked away first, unable to process that admission with dawn approaching and death on their heels. "Save it for after we survive the night."
"Optimistic of you to assume I'll survive what you'll do to me once you're safe."
Despite everything, her lips twitched. "Extremely optimistic."
He smiled then, that real smile she'd seen so rarely, the one that transformed his carefully composed features into something devastatingly genuine. "I've missed you too, Rory."
She didn't trust herself to respond, so she pulled open the door instead, stepping into the narrow hallway. Behind them, Ptolemy meowed a mournful goodbye.
They had four hours until dawn, a city full of enemies, and six months of unfinished business between them.
Aurora gripped her bag tighter and followed Lucien into the London night, telling herself she was only doing this to survive.
She'd always been a terrible liar.