AI The door swung open before Rory’s knuckles could rap a second time against the wood. Lucien stood there, one hand braced against the frame, the other gripping his ivory-handled cane like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—locked onto hers with the precision of a sniper’s scope.
“You,” he said, voice rough as gravel underfoot.
The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like burnt sugar, rolled off him . Rory’s fingers twitched at her sides. She hadn’t expected him to answer. Hadn’t expected him to *look * like this—pale under the sharp angles of his face, his usually immaculate platinum hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. The tailored charcoal suit he wore was rumpled at the shoulders, the cuffs of his shirt rolled back to reveal forearms corded with tension .
“Me,” she agreed, stepping forward before he could slam the door in her face. The flat behind him was dim, the only light spilling from a single lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the hardwood. “You going to invite me in, or do I have to strong-arm my way past you ?”
A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Depends. Are you here to kill me or fuck me ?”
The question hung between them, raw and unfiltered. Rory’s pulse kicked up, but she didn’t flinch. “Neither. Though I haven’t decided which one I’d enjoy more.”
Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. He stepped back, just enough to let her slip past him into the flat. The door clicked shut behind her, the deadbolts sliding home with a series of sharp *thunks *. The sound was final. Like a cell door closing.
Rory turned slowly, taking in the space. Eva’s flat had always been a mess of books and scrolls, but this—this was different. The air smelled of old paper and something metallic, like blood left too long in the open. The bookshelves were half-empty, their contents strewn across the floor in haphazard piles. A single chair sat overturned near the window, its legs splayed like a broken spider.
“You’ve been busy,” she observed, nudging a stack of papers with the toe of her boot. The top sheet was a police report, the ink smudged as if someone had gripped it too tightly .
Lucien leaned against the door, watching her with that unnerving stillness of his. “You didn’t come here to admire my redecorating.”
“No.” She crouched, picking up a photograph from the floor. It was Eva, her dark hair tangled, her eyes wide with something like fear . Rory’s stomach twisted. “I came because Eva’s missing. And you ’re the last person who saw her.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Lucien didn’t move, didn’t breathe, but Rory felt the shift in the air anyway—the way the temperature dropped, the way the shadows seemed to lean in closer.
“You’re lying,” he said finally, voice low .
Rory stood, the photograph still clutched in her hand. “Am I?”
Lucien pushed off the door, his cane tapping against the floor as he crossed the room. He stopped just short of her, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his pupils dilated when he looked at her. “Eva left a note. Said she was going to ground. Said she’d be back in a week.”
“Bullshit.” Rory held up the photo. “This wasn’t taken a week ago. This was taken *last night *.”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the image, then back to her face. His expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around the cane. “Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?” Rory stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar along his jawline, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “Eva wouldn’t just disappear. Not without telling me . Not without telling *you *.”
Lucien’s lips curled, just slightly . “You assume a lot, *chérie *.”
The endearment hit her like a physical blow. Rory’s breath caught, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “Don’t call you what you are? Don’t remind you that you left *me * without a word? Or don’t point out that you ’re standing in my flat, accusing me of God knows what, when you haven’t so much as sent a text in *three years *?”
Rory’s chest burned. “This isn’t about us.”
“Isn’t it?” Lucien’s voice dropped, rough and low. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you ’re here because you *want * something. And I’ve never been one to turn down a woman who knows what she wants.”
The air between them crackled, charged with something dangerous. Rory’s skin prickled, her pulse hammering in her throat. She should step back. She should *leave *. But she didn’t.
Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “I want to know where Eva is.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, sharp. “And if I tell you ?”
“Then I’ll leave .”
“Liar.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist—the small crescent-shaped mark she’d had since she was a child. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt through her, hot and electric . “You’ve never been good at lying to me , Rory.”
She jerked her hand back, her breath coming fast. “Don’t.”
Lucien’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “Eva’s in trouble. Real trouble. The kind that doesn’t end with a happy reunion and a cup of tea.”
Rory’s stomach dropped. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that involves demons.” His voice was grim . “The kind that involves *me *.”
Rory’s mind raced . Demons. *Him *. The pieces clicked into place, and suddenly , she understood why Eva had been so secretive lately, why she’d been digging into things she shouldn’t have been. “You’re involved in this.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying to *fix * it.”
“By what? Letting her walk into the lion’s den?” Rory’s voice rose, sharp with frustration. “You were supposed to *protect * her.”
“And you were supposed to *stay *,” Lucien shot back, his voice a low growl . “But we both know how that turned out.”
The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Rory’s chest ached, her throat tight. She wanted to scream. She wanted to *hit * him. But more than anything , she wanted to know the truth.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her . “All of it.”
Lucien studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching hers. Then, with a sigh, he turned and limped toward the kitchen, his cane tapping against the floor. “You’re going to want a drink for this.”
Rory followed, her boots silent against the hardwood. The kitchen was just as much of a mess as the rest of the flat—dirty dishes piled in the sink, takeout containers scattered across the counter. Lucien pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, along with two glasses. He poured them both a generous amount, then slid one across the counter to her.
Rory took it, her fingers brushing against his. The contact sent a spark up her arm, but she ignored it, lifting the glass to her lips. The whiskey burned, but she welcomed the heat, the way it grounded her.
Lucien downed his in one swallow, then poured himself another. “Eva’s been digging into things she shouldn’t have. Things that involve my father.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She knew enough about Lucien’s father to know that wasn’t good. “What kind of things?”
“Old magic.” Lucien’s voice was grim. “The kind that shouldn’t exist anymore. The kind that can unravel the fabric of reality if it’s not handled carefully .”
Rory’s grip tightened around the glass. “And Eva found it.”
“Worse.” Lucien’s gaze met hers, his expression bleak. “She *used * it.”
The words hit Rory like a punch to the gut. “She what?”
“She performed a summoning.” Lucien’s voice was low, his words measured . “She tried to bring something back. Something that shouldn’t have been brought back.”
Rory’s mind reeled. “What did she bring back?”
Lucien’s gaze darkened. “Something that’s been hunting her ever since.”
A cold dread settled in Rory’s stomach . “And you let her do this?”
“I didn’t *let * her do anything .” Lucien’s voice was sharp. “I tried to stop her. But Eva’s always been stubborn. And she’s always had a death wish.”
Rory’s fingers trembled around the glass. “Where is she now?”
Lucien’s expression was grim. “I don’t know. But I know where she’s going.”
Rory set the glass down, her mind racing . “Where?”
“Avaros.” The name hung between them, heavy and ominous. “The demon realm.”
Rory’s blood ran cold . “You’re not serious.”
Lucien’s gaze was steady. “Deadly.”
Rory’s mind whirled. Avaros. The demon realm. The place Lucien’s father had come from. The place that had shaped him, twisted him, made him what he was. And Eva—sweet, stubborn Eva—was walking right into it.
“Why?” Rory’s voice was barely a whisper . “Why would she do this?”
Lucien’s expression softened, just slightly . “Because she thought she could fix it. Because she thought she could bring back someone she lost.”
Rory’s chest ached. She knew that feeling . Knew the desperation, the grief, the need to do something—*anything *—to bring back what you ’d lost. She’d felt it when her mother died. She’d felt it when she left Lucien.
“Who?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Lucien’s gaze met hers, his expression unreadable . “Someone she loved.”
Rory’s heart pounded in her chest . “And you ’re just going to let her walk into hell?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I’m going after her.”
Rory’s breath caught. “You’re going to Avaros.”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
Lucien’s gaze held hers, steady and unyielding. “No.”
The word hung between them, heavy with implication . Rory’s pulse raced , her mind whirling. She should say no. She should turn around and walk out that door and never look back. But she couldn’t. Not when Eva was in danger. Not when Lucien was walking into hell itself.
“You’re asking me to come with you ,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her .
Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not asking.”
Rory’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” Lucien’s voice was low, his words measured . “And I will. Because Eva’s my friend. And because I’m not letting her walk into Avaros alone.”
Rory’s chest ached. She knew that tone . Knew that look . Knew that once Lucien made up his mind, there was no changing it.
“Fine,” she said, her voice steady . “But we do this my way.”
Lucien’s lips quirked, just slightly . “Your way?”
“My way.” Rory stepped closer, her gaze locked onto his. “No secrets. No lies. And no more running.”
Lucien’s gaze held hers, his expression unreadable . Then, slowly , he nodded. “Deal.”
Rory exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just slightly . “Good. Now tell me everything . And I mean *everything *.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, sharp. “Where do you want me to start?”
Rory’s gaze didn’t waver. “At the beginning.”
Lucien’s expression darkened, his gaze flicking to the photograph still clutched in Rory’s hand. “Then you ’d better sit down, *chérie *. Because this story doesn’t have a happy ending.”