AI "You."
The word hung between them like a flickering streetlamp, half-lit and stubborn. Aurora stood framed in Eva's doorway, an arm slung above her head on the doorframe. A stubborn lock of black hair escaped her ponytail to fall across one bright blue eye. She didn't move aside.
Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold, polished black loafers gleaming against the worn welcome mat. His charcoal suit was perfection, the fabric catching the flat's weak light in subtle, expensive ways. The ivory-handled cane rested lightly against his leg, a casual prop. Rain slicked his platinum blond hair back from his face, emphasizing the stark contrast of his eyes — one amber, one black as a well-bottom. A single drop of water traced a slow path down his temple.
"Your security's psychological," Lucien said, his French accent softening the consonants. Not a compliment. An observation. His gaze flicked over the three deadbolts on the door she hadn't opened further than six inches.
"You're waterlogged."
"It's London."
Silence stretched. Ptolemy the tabby wound himself between Aurora's ankles, then hopped onto a stack of dusty grimoires by the door, watching Lucien with green, judgemental eyes.
The third broken lock?
That wasn't just rust."The lease says no trespassing demons."
"Half." A faint smile touched his mouth. It didn't reach his mismatched eyes. "Technically, I'm half-trespassing."
She almost smiled back. Damn him.
It'd been seven months. Fourteen days. Give or take an hour since they'd stood in his office on Threadneedle Street, the air thick with incense and tension , and he'd said don't come back. Not with those words, but with the cool dismissal in his tone, the way he'd turned his back to examine a fifteenth-century map as if she'd ceased to exist. As if the late nights translating cursed scrolls, the shared pot of bitter coffee, the moment his fingers had brushed hers when passing a witch-blade — as if none of it had carved grooves into something that felt dangerously like trust.
She'd left Cardiff to escape a man who made her feel small. She hadn't come to London to find one who made her feel like she could crack pavement slabs with her bare hands and it still wouldn't be enough to impress him.
Yet here he was. Unannounced. Uninvited. Dripping on Eva's doormat.
"Evangeline's out," Aurora said finally. Her arm ached from holding the door. She lowered it, but didn't step back.
"I came for you."
Her heart performed a stupid, traitorous flip. She leaned her hip against the doorjamb, crossing her arms over her chest, a makeshift shield. The fabric of her jumper — one of Eva's old university hoodies — was soft and worn thin at the elbows. She felt suddenly, acutely aware of her own scruffiness next to his tailored precision.
"Christmas carolers come for me. Takeaway delivery men come for me. You," she said, "send messages. Through couriers with too many teeth. Or by making streetlights flicker in patterns I'm supposed to decode."
He inclined his head, conceding the point. The movement sent another droplet of rain sliding down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. "The situation requires... directness."
"Directness. Right." She studied him . The cut on his jaw was fresh — a thin, precise line along the bone, almost surgical. His knuckles, wrapped around the cane's ivory head, were raw. Not bruised. Scoured, like ground meat against brick.
He caught her looking. His thumb stroked the smooth curve of the cane handle. "May I come in, Rory?"
He used the nickname rarely. When he did, it felt like a key turning in a lock she kept bolted.
Aurora held his gaze for three more heartbeats. Then she stepped back, pulling the door wide. "Wipe your feet."
Lucien crossed the threshold with that unnatural grace he possessed — not quite human, not quite something else . The floorboards didn't creak under his weight . Ptolemy hissed once, low in his throat, before jumping down and stalking towards the kitchen.
She closed the door, engaging all three deadbolts with a series of solid thunks. The sound felt final. When she turned, he was surveying the chaos of Eva's flat.
Books and scrolls covered every surface — the coffee table, the two mismatched armchairs, the floor. Tea mugs with fossilised rings at the bottom sat beside sextants and tarnished silver bowls. The air smelled of old paper, drying herbs, and the underlying ghost of last night's vindaloo from the curry house below.
"Charming," Lucien remarked.
"It's lived-in."
"Indeed."
He didn't sit. He stood in the centre of the room, a dark monolith amid the scholarly clutter, his cane planted before him like a sceptre. Rainwater from his coat pattered softly onto Eva's threadbare Persian rug.
Aurora moved past him to the small kitchenette, more for something to do with her hands than from any desire to play hostess. She filled the kettle, her back to him. "So. Directness."
"The Court of Avaros is opening a consulate."
The kettle slipped in her grip. She caught it before it clattered into the sink. Cold dread pooled in her stomach , sharp and acidic. She turned slowly .
Lucien watched her, his expression unreadable . "In Camden. Officially a diplomatic mission. Unofficially, a beachhead."
"My father's court."
"Indeed." His gaze drifted to the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, visible as she gripped the counter edge. A childhood accident from a broken bottle, she'd told him once. He'd traced it with a fingertip, his touch colder than human skin, and asked if she was sure. She hadn't answered.
"Why tell me?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Because your father's envoys arrive next week. And they've requested a liaison with... local assets."
"I'm not an asset."
"No," he agreed softly . "You're a loose end."
The words hung in the herb-scented air. A loose end. Something to be trimmed, tucked away, or burned.
She forced a laugh. It sounded brittle. "So you're here to... tie me off? Send me packing back to Cardiff? A bit dramatic, even for you, Lucien."
He moved then. Not quickly, but with purpose . Three steps brought him to the kitchenette threshold. He didn't enter — he never invaded without permission, that was part of his maddening code — but he stood close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint pulse at his temple. She caught the scent of him beneath the rain and wool: sandalwood and ozone, and something darker, like extinguished candlewick.
"I told them you were dead."
The world narrowed to the space between them. The hum of the fridge. The drip of a tap she'd meant to fix last week. The rapid thrum of her own blood in her ears.
"They didn't believe you, I take it."
"They demanded proof."
"What kind of proof?"
His mismatched eyes held hers. "A body."
She swallowed. The inside of her mouth tasted of metal. "And you said?"
"I said I'd provide one."
Silence. Profound and heavy. Outside, Brick Lane rumbled with evening traffic, the distant wail of a siren cutting through the rain.
Aurora turned back to the kettle, flicked it on. The click was loud in the quiet. "So that's the directness. You're here to kill me. To tidy up."
"Rory."
"No, it makes sense." She pulled two mugs from the cupboard — one with a faded pun about archaeology, one chipped along the rim. "Clean, efficient . No loose ends. Very you."
His hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist. Not hard. But firm. His skin was cool, almost shockingly so. He turned her gently to face him.
"Is that what you think of me?"
She looked down at his hand on her wrist, then up into his face. The amber eye seemed to glow in the flat's dim light. The black one swallowed it.
"I think," she said slowly , "that you're a man who deals in information. In favours. In balance sheets. And I think your balance sheet with the Court of Avaros must be looking rather red right now if they're asking for my head."
"Not your head," he murmured. His thumb brushed over her pulse point. "Just proof of cessation. Proof that the daughter of Brendan Carter is no longer a... complication."
"And you volunteered."
"I did."
"Why?"
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "Because if I provide the proof, I control the narrative. I control what they see . What they believe."
The kettle boiled, switching off with a loud click. Aurora didn't move. "You're talking about faking my death."
"It's been done before."
"Not by me."
"You won't be doing it. I will."
She pulled her wrist free. "And then what? I go into hiding? Grow out my hair, move to the Cotswolds, keep goats?"
"If you like goats."
"This isn't a joke, Lucien."
"I'm perfectly serious." He leaned his cane against the counter, freeing both hands. He didn't touch her again, but his presence seemed to fill the small kitchen. "There's a flat in Marseille. Quiet. Protected. My mother's."
She stared at him. "You want to stash me at your mother's house."
"For a time. Until the envoys are satisfied and return to Avaros."
"And you?"
"I have business here."
"Of course you do." She turned away, busying herself with tea bags, boiling water, milk from the fridge that was probably on the turn. Her hands trembled . She stilled them by force of will. "So let me get this straight. You show up unannounced, drip all over Eva's rug, tell me my demonic father's minions are in town and want me dead, and your brilliant solution is to fake my death and ship me off to your mum's in France."
"That's the essence of it, yes."
She slammed the milk carton down. "No."
"Rory—"
"No." She faced him, her blue eyes blazing. "I didn't run from Evan to run from this. I didn't leave my life, my degree, my family — such as it is — to spend the rest of it looking over my shoulder. I'm done hiding."
"This isn't a human ex-boyfriend with a temper. This is the Court of Avaros. They don't send solicitors' letters. They send Shriekers. Soul-eaters. Things that make what you've seen so far look like a children's pantomime."
"Then I'll face them."
"With what?" His voice sharpened, the French accent thickening . "Your quick thinking? Your university debate trophies? The small knife you keep in your boot?"
She flinched.
He saw it. His expression softened, just a fraction. "This isn't bravery, Rory. It's stubbornness. And it will get you killed."
"Maybe. But it's my choice."
"Is it?" He took a step closer. They were almost touching now. She could feel the chill radiating from him, see the individual droplets of rain caught in his eyelashes. "Or is it the choice of a woman who'd rather die than be indebted? Than to owe someone?"
Her breath hitched. "That's not—"
"Isn't it?" His voice dropped to a whisper . "You walked out of my office seven months ago because I wouldn't tell you about the binding ritual on the Lemegeton scroll. Because I said it was too dangerous. Because I *protected * you."
"You patronised me."
"I kept you alive." His hand rose, as if to cup her cheek, but stopped mid-air. He let it fall. "And you couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand that someone might know more than you. That someone might care enough to say no."
"You didn't care. You were protecting your investment."
"Was I?"
The question hung between them, naked and vulnerable.
All the unsaid things of the past months rose like ghosts in the steam from their untouched tea. The late nights. The shared jokes in dead languages. The time he'd stitched up a cut on her palm after a run-in with a ghoul, his fingers sure and steady, his head bent close to hers. The way he'd looked at her when she'd deciphered a particularly nasty curse — not with surprise, but with a quiet, fierce pride that had made her chest ache.
She'd told herself it was professional respect. That the flutter in her stomach whenever he entered a room was adrenaline, not attraction. That the hurt when he'd shut her out was just wounded pride.
Lies. All of it.
"I can't run again," she whispered.
"You're not running." His voice was so soft now. "You're regrouping. Buying time."
"For what?"
"For me to fix this."
She barked a laugh, watery and choked. "You? You're the one who got me into this. You're the one who made a deal with my father in the first place."
"A deal," he said slowly , "that kept you safe for twenty-five years. A deal that put a wall between you and Avaros. A deal that's now crumbling because your father's new consort wants the half-human heir out of the picture."
The revelation landed like a physical blow. "What?"
"Did you think you were the only complication?" His smile was bitter . "I'm sorry to disappoint. This isn't about you, Rory. It's about succession. Politics. Your father's new bride wants her own children on the throne. You're a living, breathing reminder of his... human indulgences."
The room tilted. She grabbed the counter edge.
He was there instantly, his hands on her elbows, steadying her. The touch was electric , even through layers of fabric. Cold and warm at once.
"I've spent seven months," he said, his mouth close to her ear, "trying to renegotiate. To find another way. But the Court is impatient. And now they're here."
She looked up into his face. Saw the weariness etched there, beneath the impeccable veneer. The raw knuckles. The fresh cut. The shadows under his eyes that no amount of tailoring could hide.
"You've been fighting."
"Negotiating."
"With your fists."
"Sometimes the language of fists is more persuasive than the language of politics." His thumbs stroked the insides of her elbows, a gentle, rhythmic motion. "But it hasn't been enough. They want proof. So I'll give it to them. A body. A funeral. A closed file."
"And then?"
"And then," he said, "you live. Under a new name. In a new place. With resources, protection."
"Your protection."
He didn't look away. "If you'll have it."
The words were a precipice. She stood on the edge, the wind of her own fear buffeting her.
Seven months ago, she would have thrown his offer back in his face. Would have stormed out, pride intact, and faced whatever came alone.
But seven months ago, she hadn't lain awake night after night, staring at the water-stained ceiling of her flat above Silas' bar, wondering if the knock at the door would be a drunken patron or something with too many teeth. She hadn't jumped at shadows in the Chinese restaurant's delivery alley. Hadn't started carrying the boot knife not as a precaution, but as a necessity .
She was tired. So, so tired.
"What about Eva?" she asked quietly.
"She'll be told you're in hiding. She can visit. Once it's safe."
"And my mum? Dad?"
"Your mother believes you're studying abroad. Your father..." Lucien's mouth tightened. "Your father has made his choice."
The words were a dull ache, not a surprise. Her barrister father, who'd always looked at her with a faint unease, as if she were a complex case he couldn't quite crack . Her kind, gentle mother, who'd tried so hard to pretend their family was normal, was human.
Aurora closed her eyes. When she opened them, Lucien was still there. Still watching her with that unnerving dual-colour gaze.
"Say yes," he murmured.
It wasn't a command. It was a plea.
She thought of Marseille. Sun on water. A safe place. His mother's house. A life without looking over her shoulder.
A life in his debt.
A life with him in it.
Her hand rose, almost of its own volition, to touch the fresh cut on his jaw. His breath caught. Her fingers were warmer than his skin.
"You'll get blood on your rug," she whispered.
"I'll buy Eva a new one."
"Ptolemy will hate you."
"He already does."
A smile touched her lips. Faint, but real.
His hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm against his jaw. The cut was shallow, clean. A blade's work. "Say yes, Rory."
Outside, the rain picked up, hammering against the windowpane like fists.
Inside, the steam from their forgotten tea curled towards the ceiling, writing ghostly, temporary letters in the air.
She took a breath. Held his gaze.
The first deadbolt snapped open under her fingers.