AI The knock came just as Rory was settling in with a mug of Earl Grey and a well-thumbed copy of Eva’s latest grimoire. Ptolemy, sprawled across the arm of the threadbare sofa, twitched an ear but didn’t bother to move. Rory didn’t either, at first. Eva was out of town, and no one else had any business showing up unannounced.
The knock came again, sharper this time, insistent. Rory sighed, set her mug down on the cluttered coffee table, and padded to the door, shoving a loose strand of black hair behind her ear. She peered through the peephole and froze.
Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow hallway, impeccably dressed as always in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Rory made in a month. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and he leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, the picture of casual elegance. Even through the distorted lens of the peephole, his mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—bore into her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
Rory opened the door just enough to wedge herself in the gap, her bare arms crossed over her chest. “Luc.”
“Rory.” His voice was smooth, low, and infuriatingly calm. “May I come in?”
She didn’t move. “Eva’s not here.”
“I’m aware.” His lips curved into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I came to see you.”
Of course he did. Rory’s jaw tightened. She hadn’t seen him in months, not since that night at the Black Cat when they’d argued—no, when *she’d * argued—and she’d walked out, leaving him standing in the dim light of the club, his expression unreadable . She’d told herself it was for the best, that whatever strange, magnetic thing had been between them was better off extinguished before it consumed her. And yet, here he was, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread and smelling faintly of sandalwood and something darker, something she couldn’t name.
“Why?” she asked, her voice cooler than she felt.
“Because we need to talk.” His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, a hint of something deeper simmering beneath the surface. “And because avoiding me hasn’t worked out well for either of us .”
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” she lied.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Then invite me in.”
Rory hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the door. She could send him away, could shut the door and pretend he wasn’t standing there with that look in his eyes that made her chest ache. But she didn’t. Instead, she stepped back, pulling the door wide, and gestured for him to enter.
Lucien stepped inside, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. He paused just past the threshold, glancing around the cluttered flat with mild curiosity. Ptolemy, deciding that a newcomer warranted his attention, leapt down from the sofa and approached with the regal air of a cat who knew he owned the place.
“Hello, Ptolemy,” Lucien said, extending a hand for the tabby to sniff. Ptolemy rubbed against his leg once, then twined around him in a figure-eight before sauntering off, apparently satisfied with his inspection.
“Make yourself at home,” Rory muttered, closing the door and resetting the deadbolts more out of habit than necessity.
Lucien turned to face her, his mismatched eyes studying her with that unnerving intensity . “You’ve been well?”
“Fine,” she said shortly, leaning against the door. “What do you want, Luc?”
He sighed, leaning his weight on his cane as if it suddenly felt heavier. “Must we be so adversarial?”
“I don’t know,” Rory shot back. “Must you show up unannounced and expect me to be thrilled to see you?”
“I didn’t expect you to be thrilled,” he said quietly . “But I hoped you’d at least hear me out.”
Rory pressed her lips together, her stomach churning with emotions she didn’t want to name. She pushed off the door and stalked past him into the small living room, busying herself with straightening the already chaotic pile of books and scrolls on the coffee table. It gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on besides the way her heart was pounding in her chest.
Lucien followed her, his cane tapping softly against the floor. He stopped just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and that darker, indefinable something that was uniquely him. She stiffened, her fingers curling around the edge of a battered grimoire.
“Rory,” he said softly , “look at me.”
She didn’t want to. Looking at him felt like staring into the sun—too much , too bright, too dangerous. But she turned anyway, because she couldn’t help herself, because something in his voice compelled her.
He was closer than she’d expected, and she had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his gaze. His amber eye burned like molten gold, while the black one seemed to swallow the light. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice low and rough, and Rory felt something inside her crack open.
“Don’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” He took a step closer, and she found herself stepping back until her legs bumped against the edge of the sofa. “It’s the truth. I’ve missed you, Rory. Every day since you walked out.”
Her chest tightened, and she wrapped her arms around herself, as if that could protect her from the ache his words stirred in her. “Stop.”
“No.” His voice was firm now, his gaze unwavering . “You walked away without letting me explain—without giving us a chance. I’m not going to let you do that again.”
“There’s no *us *,” she said, her voice breaking . “There can’t be.”
“Why not?” he demanded, his frustration bleeding through the calm facade . “Because you’re scared? Because you think I’ll hurt you?”
“Yes,” she snapped, her eyes blazing . “You’re half-demon, Luc. You deal in secrets and lies and—”
“And you?” he interrupted sharply . “You’re no stranger to secrets, Rory. You’ve been running from your own truth for years.”
She flinched, his words hitting too close to home. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” He stepped closer again, until there was barely any space between them. “You accuse me of being dangerous, but you’re the one who keeps pushing everyone away. You think it’s safer to be alone, but it’s not. It’s just lonely.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them away furiously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know more than you think,” he said softly . He reached out, his fingers brushing against the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a touch so light it sent shivers up her arm. “I know you, Rory. Better than anyone.”
She wanted to pull away, to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn’t. Her breath hitched, and she looked up at him, her bright blue eyes clouded with confusion and longing.
“Luc…”
His name was barely a whisper , but it was enough. His hand slid up her arm, cupping her face gently , his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “Stop running,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion . “Stop pretending you don’t feel this.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words caught in her throat. Because he wasn’t wrong. She felt it—had always felt it—that pull, that magnetism that drew her to him like a moth to a flame . And it terrified her.
But as his lips brushed against hers, soft and tentative, the fear melted away, replaced by something softer, warmer. Her hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit jacket as she kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with a desperation that surprised even her.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing heavily, Lucien rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. “Don’t push me away again,” he whispered.
Rory swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. “I’ll try,” she said quietly, her voice trembling . “But I can’t promise anything.”
“That’s enough,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers again . “For now, that’s enough.”