AI The first deadbolt slid back with a blunt clack. Rory kept her shoulder against the door, weight braced, while the curry house downstairs pumped cumin and fried onions up the stairwell like a warning.
Second bolt. Third.
The chain stayed on.
Through the peephole she caught a flash of charcoal wool and a pale hand resting on an ivory cane. Not Eva. Not a courier. Not anyone who belonged on Brick Lane at midnight.
Rory pulled the door open as far as the chain allowed.
Lucien’s face filled the gap. The corridor light cut clean lines into him and turned his slicked-back hair to cold metal. One eye glowed amber, the other drank the light down to black. He looked like he’d stepped out of a tailored advertisement and into the wrong century.
His gaze dropped to the chain.
“Still keeping score.”
Rory’s fingers tightened on the edge of the door. Her left wrist brushed the frame; the crescent scar caught on a splinter and stung.
“You don’t get to comment on my locks.” Her voice came out flat . “Not after you walked out of mine.”
Lucien shifted the cane, the ivory handle tapping once against the cracked tile. He stood too close for the narrow landing, close enough that Rory could smell rain and some clean, sharp scent that always made her think of old paper sliced by a knife.
“I didn’t walk out,” he murmured. “I was removed.”
“Same result.”
Behind her, the flat rustled with paper and the soft skitter of Ptolemy’s paws over a stack of books. The tabby appeared in the hallway like a striped question mark, tail upright, eyes narrowed at the stranger.
Lucien glanced down.
“You’ve acquired a watchdog.”
“He weighs nine pounds and he’s still got better instincts than you.”
The amber eye flicked back up. Something tightened at the corner of his mouth — not a smile, not quite .
“Let me in, Aurora.”
Rory’s throat twitched around her name in his accent. She hated that it still landed under her skin like a thumb on a bruise.
“You never call me that.”
Lucien’s hand settled on the doorframe, fingers long, bare, confident. Not pushing. Claiming space.
“You used to like it.”
Rory’s laugh came out wrong, too sharp for the cramped hallway.
“I used to like a lot of things. I used to like believing you.”
Ptolemy padded forward and pressed his head against Rory’s ankle, fur warm through her sock. Rory kept her eyes on Lucien.
“What do you want?”
Lucien’s gaze slid past her shoulder into the flat. Books and scrolls covered every surface. Notes pinned to the wall like a crime scene. Eva’s mismatched mugs crowded the kitchenette. The cat’s water bowl sat beside a stack of annotated photocopies. Rory had camped on the sofa with a blanket and a laptop, the sort of arrangement you made when you didn’t trust your own bed.
He took it all in with that fixer’s hunger.
“You’re not alone,” he noted.
Rory didn’t move.
“I didn’t ask for a census.”
Lucien’s jaw flexed. The black eye stayed steady; the amber one caught a tremor of impatience, like fire behind glass.
“I need a place for the night.”
Rory let the words hang between them with the chain.
A scooter buzzed down the street outside. Someone laughed under the curry house awning. Brick Lane kept breathing, careless, while Rory stared at the man who’d turned her life into a series of locked doors.
“You’ve got hotels,” she replied. “Penthouses. Safe houses. Whatever men like you collect.”
Lucien’s fingers tightened on the frame. The tendons stood out under pale skin.
“They’re watched.”
“So go somewhere else.”
His gaze dropped, not to her face this time, but to her wrist where the sleeve of her jumper rode up. The crescent scar sat there like a small moon.
“You’ve been hurt.”
Rory pulled her arm back, tugging the sleeve down.
“Don’t.”
Lucien exhaled through his nose. The sound scraped.
“I didn’t come here to pick at old injuries.”
“No,” Rory snapped, “you came here because you ran out of doors to knock on.”
A silence pressed in. The stairwell light flickered , as if the building itself wanted out of the conversation.
Lucien lifted his cane an inch and set it down again, a small, deliberate beat.
“You can shut it,” he said, voice low , “and I will leave.”
Rory held the chain between them like a boundary. Her mind chased the practical routes first — Eva would kill her if she let a half-demon fixer into the flat with the research spread everywhere, and then kill her again if she turned him away and he got gutted in the alley. Rory pictured Lucien bleeding on the stairs, neat suit ruined, and felt something ugly twist in her stomach .
“You look fine,” she said. “No blood. No limp. What’s watched you?”
Lucien’s mouth twitched again.
“Your assessment skills remained intact.”
“Answer the question.”
His eyes didn’t soften. They sharpened.
“I brought trouble,” he admitted. “And I didn’t bring it to you on purpose.”
Rory’s hand went to the chain.
“I heard that one before.”
Lucien leaned closer to the gap. The landing shrank. Rory’s lungs tightened on the scent of him.
“You heard it from me?” His voice carried a quiet edge. “Or from someone else you trusted?”
Rory’s jaw locked. Evan’s name tried to climb up her throat and she shoved it back down with force.
Lucien watched her face like he read an open file. The bastard always noticed.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“I didn’t say his name.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Ptolemy let out a low, complaining sound and rubbed harder against Rory’s ankle, as if he wanted to push her forward or back, just do something.
Rory stared at Lucien’s cane. Ivory handle. Too pretty to belong in this stairwell. She pictured the blade hidden inside it, a secret built into something elegant. She pictured Lucien’s hands, those hands, drawing it with calm precision.
“You’ve still got weapons,” she muttered.
Lucien tipped the cane, almost like a bow.
“You’ve still got opinions.”
Rory’s mouth went dry. She hated that he could make her feel sixteen and twenty-five at once, all sharp edges and heat.
“If I let you in,” she said, “you don’t touch anything. You don’t look at anything. You don’t open Eva’s drawers like you own the place.”
Lucien’s gaze slid past her again, to the wall of notes.
“I don’t open drawers,” he replied. “I open people.”
Rory swallowed. Her pulse jumped in her throat, a rabbit against a cage.
“God, you’re still insufferable.”
Lucien’s eyes held hers. The amber one caught something like amusement, then dropped it .
“And you’re still brave to the point of stupidity.”
Rory’s fingers moved on the chain. One quick twist and she could end this. One quick twist and she could make him leave and keep her heart intact like a file locked away.
Instead she lifted the chain off.
Lucien didn’t rush. He waited as Rory slid the door wider, waited as she stepped back into the hallway. He crossed the threshold with the cane first, then his shoulder, then the rest of him, folding into the cramped flat as if he’d always fit in spaces too small.
Ptolemy circled his shoes, sniffed, and sneezed.
Lucien glanced down again, then back up.
“Charming welcome.”
Rory shut the door and threw the deadbolts one by one. The metallic snaps felt like punctuation marks she needed .
When she turned around, Lucien stood near the entryway, hands loose, cane vertical, eyes scanning without moving his head. The suit sat perfect on him despite the damp sheen along the shoulders.
“You’re dripping on Eva’s floor,” Rory noted.
Lucien lifted one brow.
“I’ll apologise to her later.”
“You won’t,” Rory shot back. “You’ll vanish before morning. That’s your thing.”
Lucien’s gaze caught on her face. The air changed. Less banter, more blade.
“I vanished because staying meant…” He stopped, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth like he bit down on the rest.
Rory folded her arms. The posture made her feel smaller than she wanted, like she wrapped herself up for warmth .
“Say it,” she challenged. “Go on.”
Lucien stepped forward. Not close enough to touch, close enough that Rory’s body remembered the distance anyway. Her skin tightened along her forearms.
His voice came quieter, the French edges scraping against English.
“Staying meant giving you an explanation you didn’t want,” he replied. “Or a truth you wouldn’t forgive.”
Rory’s laugh fell out again, smaller this time, like it didn’t want to exist.
“You don’t get to decide what I forgive.”
Lucien’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Not lingering. Not polite. A glance that carried weight .
“You used to bite your lip when you lied,” he murmured. “You still do it.”
Rory realised she had her teeth on her bottom lip and forced herself to let go.
“Stop watching me like I’m a document.”
Lucien’s gaze stayed put.
“I watched you like you mattered.”
The words hit too clean. Rory felt them in her ribs.
She stepped sideways, breaking the line between them, and gestured deeper into the flat.
“There’s the sofa,” she said. “Don’t pretend it’s some romantic gesture. Eva’s bed’s off limits. Mine doesn’t exist here.”
Lucien moved past her, cane tapping softly against the worn floorboards. He paused by the wall of pinned notes and maps. His eyes flicked over handwriting, red string, a photograph half-covered by a page of Latin.
Rory’s stomach tightened.
“I said don’t look .”
Lucien lifted his hands, palms out, and backed a step away.
“I looked at the wall, not at your secrets,” he replied. “But if you want me blindfolded, you could ask in a nicer tone.”
Rory opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Heat crept up her neck, part anger, part something else she didn’t want to name.
From the kitchenette, a kettle sat on the hob like a suggestion. Rory crossed to it, more to escape the space between them than for tea. She filled it from the tap. The water roared into the metal and gave her something louder than her own heart.
Lucien’s reflection showed in the dark window above the sink. He stood behind her, not close, but present in every inch of the room .
“You always make tea when you want control,” his voice carried.
Rory clicked the kettle onto the hob with more force than necessary.
“I always make tea because I live in London.”
Lucien shifted, the cane tapping once, then stopping.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Rory kept her back to him.
“You didn’t ask one.”
Lucien’s voice sharpened, then steadied.
“Why are you at Eva’s and not at your flat above the bar?”
Rory’s fingers tightened on the counter edge. Her scar pressed against the laminate, a small sting that anchored her.
“You don’t get updates on my life,” she replied.
Lucien’s pause stretched.
“And you didn’t get updates on mine,” he answered. “You still opened the door.”
Rory turned around. The kitchen light caught her bright blue eyes in the window and made them look too hard, too exposed. Lucien stood in the living area, framed by piles of books like a man who’d wandered into a paper labyrinth. His suit looked wrong against the clutter, but he made the mess feel like it belonged to him anyway.
Rory took a step toward him.
“You came here,” she said. “After weeks. After that night. After you—”
Lucien’s gaze lifted to meet hers, steady, expectant, almost daring her to finish.
Rory’s throat tightened around the memory of his mouth near hers, the sudden distance, the cold goodbye, the sense of being used as a tool and then put back in the drawer.
She stopped two feet away.
“After you left me standing there like an idiot.”
Lucien’s hand slid up the cane, thumb rubbing the ivory handle. He didn’t look away.
“You didn’t look like an idiot,” he replied. “You looked like someone who’d finally seen me clearly.”
Rory’s breath caught. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, restless.
“And what did you see?” she demanded.
Lucien took another step. The gap narrowed to something dangerous. His suit brushed a stack of papers on the table; a few notes fluttered to the floor.
Ptolemy darted under the coffee table, tail flicking.
Lucien’s voice dropped.
“You saw that I wanted you,” he replied, “and you saw that wanting you put a target on your back.”
Rory’s laugh came out without humour.
“So you decided for me again.”
Lucien’s gaze stayed on her face. The amber eye looked hot; the black one looked endless.
“I decided that night,” he answered. “Tonight, I knocked.”
Rory’s chest rose and fell. The room felt smaller, the air warmer, the kettle starting to hiss on the hob behind her like a quiet countdown.
She lifted her chin.
“If someone followed you,” she said, “they know this building now.”
Lucien’s mouth pressed into a line.
“They knew it before I arrived.”
Rory’s skin prickled. She forced her voice to stay steady.
“How?”
Lucien’s hand tightened on the cane.
“Because Eva’s notes weren’t the only thing someone wanted,” he replied. “They asked questions about you, Rory.”
He used the nickname like a touch. Rory’s stomach dropped, then tightened.
She stepped back, then stopped herself. Retreat made it too easy.
“Who?” Her voice came out sharp.
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the deadbolts on the door, then back to her.
“Give me two minutes,” he replied. “Let me take off the wet coat I don’t have, drink the tea you’re making to avoid punching me, and then I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Rory’s eyes held his. Her hands shook once, then stilled.
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the sofa. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Lucien’s mouth curved, brief and unreadable , as he lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, cane resting against his knee.
Rory turned back toward the kitchen, the kettle’s hiss filling the flat. She reached for a mug from Eva’s crowded shelf, then paused when Lucien’s voice cut through the noise.
“You’re still wearing the ring,” he noted.
Rory looked down. A cheap silver band sat on her thumb, worn from years of fidgeting. She hadn’t thought about it until his eyes pinned it.
Her fingers closed around the mug hard enough to hurt.
“It’s not yours to notice,” she replied.
Lucien’s gaze didn’t move.
“Everything about you was always mine to notice,” he answered, and the words landed in the cramped flat like a match struck too close to paper .