AI
The brass knocker on Eva’sflat door sounded like a gunshot in the quiet of the early evening. Aurora Carter, her back pressed against the worn wallpaper of the cramped hallway, flinched. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in her chest. She’d heard the knock, sharp and insistent, and her breath hitched. Not now. Not ever again.
She straightened, forcing her breathing to slow, her cool-headedness a thin veneer over a churning sea of memories. The flat above Silas’ bar was her sanctuary , a place of books and quiet, but tonight, it felt like a cage . She moved towards the door, fingers brushing the cold metal of the deadbolt. Three locks. Three barriers against the world, against the past she’d fled.
Her hand hovered over the final lock, her knuckles white. She took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of curry from downstairs mingling with the faint, familiar smell of old paper and ink. She turned the lock, the click echoing in the stillness. She pulled the door open, her gaze sweeping the hallway beyond, searching for any sign of the person who’d dared interrupt her solitude.
Lucien Moreau stood there, framed in the doorway. The late afternoon sun caught the platinum blond hair slicked back, making it gleam like spun gold. He wore his usual charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, the fabric smooth against his lean frame. His ivory-handled cane rested against his thigh, but his posture was relaxed , almost casual, a stark contrast to the tension radiating from Aurora. His eyes, one amber, one black, held hers, unreadable , yet intensely aware.
“Rory,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like dark velvet . The name rolled off his tongue, familiar and charged . “Long time, no see.”
Aurora’s breath caught. The scar on her left wrist, a small crescent moon, pulsed faintly beneath her skin. She remembered how it had gotten there, the sharp sting of Evan’s fist, the taste of blood. Lucien had been there, a blur of movement, pulling her away from the chaos. But the memory was a shard of ice in her gut, cold and sharp.
“Lucien,” she managed, her voice tight, devoid of warmth . She didn’t step aside, didn’t invite him in. The flat was small, cluttered with books and scrolls, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something else – something she couldn’t place. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, blinked sleepily from the windowsill, his fur a soft orange blur.
“I didn’t expect you,” she added, her gaze flicking to the cane, then back to his face. The cane was just a cane, she told herself, but the memory of the thin blade it concealed was a ghost in her mind.
“Expectations are overrated,” he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the narrow hallway. His presence filled the space, warm and dangerous, like a predator entering its territory. “I needed to see you. To talk.”
Aurora felt the walls of her sanctuary close in. She took a step back, her eyes darting towards the small kitchenette, then the bedroom door. She couldn’t let him in. Not here. Not now. “Talk?” she echoed , the word bitter on her tongue. “What is there to talk about, Lucien? We’re done. Finished.”
“Is that what you told Evan?” he asked, his voice dropping to a murmur . He followed her gaze, his amber eye tracking her movement. “Or did you just run?”
The accusation, sharp and precise, landed like a physical blow. Aurora flinched, her hand flying up to press against her chest. The scar on her wrist burned. “Don’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling . “Don’t bring him into this.”
Lucien’s smile faded, replaced by a look of profound sadness. He leaned against the wall, his cane resting beside him. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, his voice softer now . “I just… I saw you. Delivering for the Empress. You looked… lost. Like you’re running again.”
Aurora stared at him, the memories flooding back – the chaos of the bar, the smell of spilled beer and fried food, the desperate need to escape Evan’s violence. She’d thought she’d left it all behind in Cardiff. But here he was, a ghost from her past, materializing in the hallway of her tiny flat.
“I’m not running,” she said, her voice stronger now, though her hands were still trembling. “I’m surviving. Just like you said I would.” She gestured vaguely around her. “This is survival, Lucien. Books, curry, a cat. It’s quiet.”
“Quiet?” he repeated, a wry twist to his lips. “You’ve always been anything but quiet, Rory. Even when you were trying to be.” He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. His eyes, the amber one fixed on her scar, the black one holding her gaze. “You’re not just surviving, are you? You’re hiding.”
Aurora felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She looked away, down at her scuffed boots. “I’m not hiding,” she insisted, though the lie tasted sour . “I’m… I’m just living.”
Lucien’s hand reached out, not to touch her, but to brush a stray strand of black hair from her forehead . His touch was surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the sharpness of his words. “You’re beautiful, Rory,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate . “Even now, hiding in your little flat.”
The words, simple and true, struck her like lightning. The attraction, the raw, undeniable pull she’d always felt for him, surged back, a tidal wave threatening to drown her carefully constructed walls. She remembered the heat of his body against hers, the dangerous allure of his world, the way he’d made her feel alive, even as he’d shattered her heart.
“Don’t,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper . She didn’t pull away from his touch, didn’t close the distance between them. She just stood there, trembling, the scent of his expensive cologne mingling with the smell of old paper and curry, a potent, intoxicating mix.
“I know why you ran, Rory,” he said, his voice rough with emotion . “I know about Evan. I saw the bruises, the fear in your eyes. I should have helped you sooner.” He paused, his gaze searching hers . “I’m sorry, Rory. For everything.”
The apology hung in the air , thick and heavy. Aurora felt the walls she’d built start to crumble. The hurt, the anger, the betrayal – it all surged back, a tidal wave of emotion. But beneath it, a different current was flowing, one of longing and regret.
“You should go,” she said finally, her voice stronger, though her hands were still clenched at her sides. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Lucien didn’t move. He just looked at her, his amber eye holding hers, the black one reflecting the fading light of the hallway. “I need to know,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Are you okay? Really okay?”
The question, simple and profound , cut through the tension . Aurora looked at him, really looked at him – the sharp lines of his face, the intensity in his eyes, the quiet strength radiating from him. She saw the man who’d saved her, the man who’d broken her heart, and the man who still, somehow, made her feel like she was the only person in the world.
“I’m… I’m trying,” she admitted, the words a fragile thing. “It’s hard.”
Lucien nodded, a small, understanding gesture. He reached into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden box. He held it out to her. “For the scar,” he said simply. “A reminder that you survived. That you’re stronger than you think.”
Aurora took the box, her fingers brushing his. The wood was cool and smooth, the carving delicate. Inside, nestled in velvet , was a small, polished stone – the color of twilight, shifting between deep blue and violet. It felt warm in her palm.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the words choked with emotion . She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I know,” he replied, his voice thick . He took a step back, towards the door. “But I had to. For you.”
He paused in the doorway, looking back at her. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, stretched languidly on the windowsill, watching Lucien with sleepy curiosity. “You’re not alone, Rory,” Lucien said, his voice soft in the quiet flat . “Not anymore.”
He turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway. Aurora stood in the doorway, the small stone warm in her palm, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. The silence of the flat was profound , broken only by the distant hum of the city and the soft purr of Ptolemy. She closed the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood, the weight of the past and the promise of the future pressing down on her shoulders. The scar on her wrist pulsed , a constant reminder , but beneath it, a different kind of warmth spread through her chest – a warmth that was both terrifying and exhilarating. The game was far from over.