AI The knock came just as Rory finished toweling her hair dry. Three sharp raps — precise, measured , unmistakably his. Her stomach dropped.
She'd been staying at Eva's flat for three days now, ever since a demon attack had left her own place above Silas' bar uninhabitable. The wards on Eva's door were supposed to keep unwanted visitors away. Apparently, Lucien didn't count as unwanted. Not to the wards, anyway.
Rory wrapped the towel around her shoulders and padded to the door in bare feet, stepping over stacks of medieval grimoires and around Ptolemy, who watched her progress with feline disinterest. She checked through the peephole, though she already knew who it would be.
Lucien stood in the narrow hallway, immaculate as always in his charcoal suit despite the late hour. The overhead light caught the platinum sheen of his hair, slicked back without a strand out of place. His ivory-handled cane rested lightly in his right hand — not because he needed it, but because he liked the aesthetic. Or because he liked having a concealed blade within easy reach. With Lucien, it was hard to tell where affectation ended and paranoia began.
She undid the three deadbolts one by one, each click echoing in the silence . When she opened the door, his mismatched eyes — amber and black — found hers immediately.
"Hello, Rory." His accent wrapped around her name like smoke, that particular blend of Marseille French and London precision that had always made her pulse quicken. Still did, apparently.
"It's past midnight." She kept her voice flat, one hand gripping the doorframe. "What do you want?"
His gaze flicked over her — damp hair, oversized Cardiff University t-shirt that barely covered her thighs, bare legs. She refused to fidget under his scrutiny. "May I come in?"
"Eva's not here."
"I'm not looking for Eva." He tilted his head slightly , studying her. "I heard about the attack on your flat. Ghasts, wasn't it? Nasty creatures."
"News travels fast in your circles."
"Everything travels fast in my circles." His lips quirked in that half-smile that used to make her forgive things she shouldn't have. "Are you going to make me stand in the hallway? The couple in 3B are already suspicious of Eva's late-night visitors."
Rory stepped back, opening the door wider. The scent of him — expensive cologne with an underlying hint of brimstone — followed him inside. She closed the door, redid the deadbolts, and turned to find him surveying the chaos of Eva's flat with an expression of mild distaste.
"Charming," he murmured, nudging aside a stack of papers with his cane to clear a path.
"Not everyone needs to live in a sterile penthouse." She crossed her arms, hyperaware of how little she was wearing . "Why are you here, Lucien?"
He set his cane against the wall and turned to face her fully. In the warm light of Eva's reading lamp, she could see the faint lines around his eyes, the slight tightness in his jaw that meant he was choosing his words carefully .
"I heard you were hurt in the attack."
"I'm fine."
"Your definition of 'fine' has always been rather elastic." He took a step closer, and she caught herself before she could step back. Running from Lucien had never worked anyway. "Let me see."
"There's nothing to see."
"Rory." Just her name, but weighted with three months of absence, three months since she'd walked out of his penthouse with her bag over her shoulder and his voice calling after her. Three months since she'd blocked his number and told herself she was done with half-demons who dealt in secrets and half-truths.
She turned, lifting her hair to show him the bandage at the base of her neck where the ghast's claws had caught her. His fingers ghosted over the edges of the bandage, not quite touching . She felt the familiar tingle of his demonic energy, assessing the wound beneath.
"It's already healing," she said. "Eva's healer friend took care of it."
"Zhang Wei? He's competent." Lucien's hand dropped, but he didn't step back. She could feel the heat of him, close enough that if she turned around, they'd be facing each other with mere inches between them. "Though he has an unfortunate tendency to leave scars."
"I already have scars." The words came out sharper than she intended.
"Yes." His voice dropped lower. "I know."
She turned then, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. The amber eye seemed to glow in the lamplight, while the black one reflected nothing. "Is that why you came? To check on my injuries? You could have sent one of your people."
"I don't have 'people.'"
"You have contacts. Informants. Whatever you call them."
"Associates," he corrected. "And no, that's not why I came."
Ptolemy chose that moment to wind around Lucien's legs, purring. Traitor cat. Lucien bent to scratch behind the tabby's ears, and Rory caught herself watching the elegant line of his neck, the way his hair fell forward slightly despite all that product.
"Then why?" She moved to the kitchenette, needing space, needing something to do with her hands. The electric kettle was already full. She clicked it on and pulled two mugs from Eva's chaotic cupboard.
"The ghasts weren't random." He straightened, his expression serious now . "They were sent."
Her hand stilled on the box of tea bags. "Sent by who?"
"Whom." The correction was automatic, reflexive. She shot him a look that would have withered a lesser man. He had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I don't know yet. But they were targeting you specifically."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've been keeping tabs on you." He said it without shame, without apology, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Did you really think I'd just let you disappear?"
"I didn't disappear. I moved twelve blocks away."
"And changed your number. And told Silas to bar me from the pub."
"Silas didn't need to be told. He never liked you."
"Most people don't." He moved closer, his cane forgotten against the wall. "That's never bothered me. Your opinion, however..."
The kettle clicked off, steam rising in the small kitchen. Rory busied herself with the tea, Earl Grey for her, jasmine for him. She remembered how he took it — no sugar, no milk, steeped exactly three minutes. Muscle memory was a dangerous thing.
"My opinion shouldn't matter to you anymore," she said, keeping her back to him.
"Shouldn't it?" He was closer now. She could sense him just behind her, not touching but near enough that the air between them felt charged . "Tell me, Rory. When you walked out that night, was it because you stopped caring? Or because you cared too much?"
Her hands tightened on the counter edge. The crescent scar on her wrist ached, the way it always did when she was stressed . "Does it matter?"
"It's the only thing that matters."
She turned, trapped between his body and the counter. He'd left just enough space that she wasn't quite pressed against him, but close enough that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw something raw there, something that looked almost like pain.
"You left me," he said quietly. "No explanation. No goodbye. Just gone."
"You know why I left."
"Do I?" His hand came up, fingertips barely grazing her cheek. "Because you found out what I am? What my father is? We both know you'd suspected long before that night."
She jerked her face away. "It wasn't about what you are. It was about the lies."
"Half-truths," he corrected. "I never outright lied to you."
"Semantics." She tried to duck under his arm, but he shifted, still not touching but effectively keeping her in place . "Let me go, Lucien."
"I did." His voice turned bitter. "For three months, I let you go. And look where it got you. Ghasts at your door, your flat destroyed, hiding in your friend's apartment like a refugee."
"I'm not hiding."
"No?" He leaned in slightly , his breath warm against her ear. "Then why are your hands shaking?"
She looked down. They were. She clenched them into fists, nails biting into her palms. "Get out."
He pulled back enough to look at her face. "I can't protect you if you won't let me."
"I don't need your protection."
"The ghasts say otherwise."
"I handled the ghasts."
"Barely." His fingers ghosted over the bandage on her neck again. "Next time, it might be something worse. There are things in this city that make ghasts look like puppies, and if someone's marked you—"
"Then I'll deal with it." She finally managed to slip past him, putting the kitchen table between them. Her tea sat cooling on the counter, forgotten. "I've been taking care of myself long before you came along."
"Yes, you have." He turned to face her, and she was struck again by how beautiful he was, even in Eva's cluttered flat with his perfect suit and his perfect hair and his perfectly mismatched eyes. Beautiful and dangerous, like a blade wrapped in silk . "But you don't have to anymore."
"Don't I?" She laughed, short and bitter. "What are you offering, Lucien? More half-truths? More nights wondering what you're not telling me? More mornings waking up alone because you had 'business' to attend to?"
"I never lied about the business."
"No, you just never mentioned that the business involved demon politics and underworld power plays and God knows what else."
He moved around the table, slow and deliberate like a predator who knew his prey was cornered . "Would you have preferred I burden you with every sordid detail? Would knowing about the territorial disputes and the blood debts and the ancient grudges have made you sleep better at night?"
"It would have been my choice to make."
"Choice." He stopped an arm's length away. "You want to talk about choices? You chose Evan, didn't you? How did that work out?"
The name hit her like a slap. She flinched, and immediately hated herself for it. "That's different."
"Is it?" His voice gentled, but his eyes remained sharp . "We all have our secrets, Rory. Our shame. The only difference is I was trying to protect you from mine."
"I didn't ask for protection."
"No." He smiled then, sad and knowing. "You never do. It's one of the things I—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
"One of the things you what?"
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face like he was memorizing it. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper . "Love about you."
The words hung in the air between them. Rory felt her breath catch, her heart stumbling over itself. In three months of whatever they'd been — lovers, friends, something in between — he'd never said it. She'd felt it in the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he showed up at her door after bad days with takeaway from the Golden Empress and listened to her complain about difficult customers. But he'd never said the words.
"Don't." She shook her head, stepping back. "You don't get to say that now."
"When should I have said it?" He matched her retreat with an advance. "When you were in my bed? When you were laughing at my terrible jokes? When you were walking out my door?"
"Any of those would have been better than now."
"Would they?" He caught her wrist gently , his thumb finding the crescent scar there. "Would it have changed anything?"
She wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that those three words might have made a difference three months ago. But the truth was more complicated. The truth always was, with them.
"I don't know," she admitted.
His thumb traced the scar, a gesture so familiar it made her chest ache. "I do. You would have run faster."
"You don't know me as well as you think."
"I know you're scared." His other hand came up to cup her face, and this time she didn't pull away. "I know you've been hurt before, badly enough to flee Cardiff and change your name. I know you check the locks three times before bed and keep a knife under your pillow. I know you take your tea with one sugar when you're stressed and none when you're happy. I know you hum Welsh lullabies when you think no one's listening."
"Stop." The word came out rough, thick.
"I know you're brave and brilliant and too stubborn for your own good." He leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers . "And I know I'm a selfish bastard for coming here tonight, but I couldn't stay away any longer. Not when you're in danger."
"The ghasts—"
"Forget the ghasts." His breath was warm on her lips. "I would have found another excuse. A dozen excuses. A hundred."
She should push him away. Should remind herself why she left, all the very good reasons she'd had. But his hands were gentle on her skin, and his amber eye was warm as honey, and she'd missed him with a physical ache that three months hadn't dulled.
"This is a mistake," she whispered.
"Probably." He smiled, that crooked half-smile that had been her undoing from the start. "But if you're going to make mistakes, ma chérie, at least make interesting ones."
She laughed despite herself, a soft exhale that he caught with his mouth.