AI The smell of turmeric and cumin clung to the peeling wallpaper of the hallway, thick enough to taste. Inside the cramped flat, the air grew stale, weighted down by the scent of old paper and the damp chill of a London November. Rory kicked a stack of leather-bound grimoires aside with a sock-clad foot to clear a path to the kitchennette.
Ptolemy, Eva’s morbidly obese tabby, sat atop the mini-fridge like a gargoyle, judging her attempts to navigate the labyrinth of research notes covering the floor.
A heavy, rhythmic thud echoed from the front door. Not the frantic rapping of Eva forgetting her keys again, nor the polite tap of the downstairs neighbor complaining about the leaky pipes. It was authoritative. Demanding.
Rory froze, a half-empty mug of tea suspended near her lips. She set the mug down on a precarious tower of encyclopedias.
She moved to the door, careful not to trip over the stray cables of Eva’s laptop charger. Her hand hovered over the first of the three deadbolts. She peered through the peephole.
Distorted by the fisheye lens, a splash of platinum blond hair and the sharp cut of a charcoal suit filled the frame.
Her stomach dropped, hitting the floor somewhere near the stack of unfinished takeaway boxes. She leaned her forehead against the painted wood, breathing in the scent of dust and anxiety. She considered pretending she wasn’t home. She considered climbing out the window, despite the three-story drop to the curry house dumpster.
The knock came again. Three raps, punctuated by the metallic click of a cane tip against the floorboards.
He knew she was in there. He probably heard her heart hammering against her ribs from the street.
Rory threw the bolts back—one, two, three—and yanked the door open.
Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, looking entirely too expensive for Brick Lane. The dim bulb of the hallway flickered , casting shadows that danced across his pale features. His heterochromatic eyes—one the color of burnt amber, the other an abyssal black—locked onto hers.
You look terrible.
Rory crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her elbows to stop her fingers from trembling.
The charm of the East End is obviously lost on you. If you’re here for the rent, I think the landlord takes payment in samosas.
Lucien didn’t smile. He stepped forward, the ivory-handled cane tapping softly on the threshold. He didn’t ask for permission to enter; he simply occupied the space, forcing her to retreat or collide with his chest. She stepped back.
He assaulted the entryway with the scent of sandalwood and ozone, drowning out the curry. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding loud in the sudden silence .
I see Eva’s organization system hasn’t improved.
He surveyed the chaos of the living room—the laundry hanging off a lampshade, the scrolls unfurled over the sofa like ribbons. He hooked the handle of his cane over his arm and reached down, picking up a stray takeout menu with two fingers, as if it were contaminated waste.
What do you want, Lucien? You can’t just show up here. Not after Manchester.
He dropped the menu. It fluttered to the floor, landing on a pile of unresolved parking tickets.
Manchester was necessary.
Rory let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. She backed up until her calves hit the edge of the sofa, needing to put distance between them. The room was too small. He sucked all the oxygen out of it just by existing.
Necessary. You left me in a warehouse with a feral wraith while you negotiated a better payout.
I knew you could handle it.
That isn't the point.
Lucien moved deeper into the room, navigating the debris with a fluid grace that shouldn't have been possible for a man carrying a cane. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint tension in his jaw, the way the amber eye seemed to glow in the gloom .
I came to check on you.
I don’t need checking on. I need you to go back to whatever velvet -lined hole you crawled out of.
His gaze dropped to her wrist, lingering on the small crescent scar, then traced the line of her arm up to her shoulder. The heat of his stare felt like a physical touch, heavy and suffocating.
You’ve been hiding for three weeks, Aurora. You stopped answering the burner phone. You stopped showing up at the Golden Empress. Even your father hasn’t heard from you.
Rory stiffened.
You spoke to my dad?
I speak to everyone. It’s my job.
She uncrossed her arms, hands balling into fists at her sides. The anger was better than the other thing—the treacherous , magnetic pull that snapped into place the moment he walked in. It buzzed under her skin, a static charge begging for a ground.
Leave my family out of your broker games. If you’re here to offer me a job, the answer is no. If you’re here to apologize, you’re about three weeks and a bottle of gin too late.
Lucien’s expression cracked, just a fraction. A flicker of something raw passed through his eyes before the mask of indifference slid back into place. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. Rory flinched, but didn't pull away.
His knuckles grazed her cheekbone. His skin was cool, a stark contrast to the flush rising in her neck.
I don't apologize, chérie. You know that.
Then why are you here?
Because you have something of mine.
Rory slapped his hand away. The contact sent a jolt through her arm, shocking and sharp.
I don't have anything of yours. I burned the contract. I threw the phone in the Thames.
Not physical property.
He took a step closer, invading her personal space with the arrogance of a predator who knew the prey had nowhere to run. His thigh brushed against hers. The contact burned through her jeans.
You walked away with my focus, Aurora. It’s proving... inconvenient.
Rory’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, searching his face for the lie, for the manipulation. That’s what Lucien did. He twisted words and emotions until they served his purpose. But his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide , swallowing the amber and the black alike.
That sounds like a personal problem.
It is.
He leaned in. He was tall, looming over her, blocking out the light from the grimy window. She could count the individual lashes framing his eyes. She could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline—shaved recently, but he ran hot, always burning through the mundane trappings of humanity.
He placed his hands on the back of the sofa, one on either side of her, trapping her in a cage of expensive wool and raw power.
Rory’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She should push him. She should dive for the ivory cane—the blade inside could do some damage if she was quick enough. But her feet felt rooted to the floor.
You’re interfering with my work, he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating in her chest. I catch a scent of lavender in the street, and I look for you. I hear a sarcastic remark in a meeting, and I expect you to be the one making it. It’s distracting.
Rory swallowed hard.
Maybe you should see a doctor. Or an exorcist.
I’d rather see you.
The air between them crackled, heavy and electric . Ptolemy let out a low growl from the fridge, sensing the shift in atmospheric pressure, but neither of them looked at the cat.
Rory turned her face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flush deepen. She stared at the spine of a book—*Summoning Rites of the 14th Century *—trying to ground herself in the absurdity of the situation.
You nearly got me killed, Lucien. You don't get to just waltz in here and play the brooding anti-hero because you’re bored.
I’m not bored. I’m irritated.
He shifted his weight , his knee pressing firmly between hers. It was a calculated move, a test of boundaries. Rory’s breath caught in her throat.
And I didn’t leave you to die. I left you to finish the job because I knew you were the only one who could. I trust your competence, Aurora. Why is that an insult?
Because you didn’t ask! You just vanished.
I came back.
Three hours later!
I brought coffee.
Rory whipped her head back around, glaring at him.
You are unbelievable.
Lucien’s gaze dropped to her mouth. The argument died in her throat, strangled by the sudden, intense awareness of his proximity. The anger was still there, but it was twisting, morphing into something hot and desperate.
I’m pragmatic.
He released one hand from the sofa back and caught her chin, his fingers firm. He tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his stare. There was no mockery in his expression now, only a hunger that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
Tell me to leave, Rory. Tell me you don't want me here, and I will walk out that door and never darken your doorstep again.
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, dragging slightly .
Rory’s hands clenched at her sides. It would be so easy. ONE word. *Go.* He was a creature of contracts and verbal bindings; he would honor it. He would vanish into the London fog and leave her to her safe, boring, struggling life.
She parted her lips to say it.
The word stuck. Her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch by a fraction of an inch. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, savoring the cool pressure of his skin.
He made a low noise in his throat, a sound that was half-growl, half-purr.
Liar.
He didn't wait for her to argue. He crashed his mouth down on hers, devouring the protest before it could form.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It tasted of frustration and pent-up energy, sharp and metallic. Rory grabbed the lapels of his jacket, twisting the expensive fabric in her fists, pulling him closer. She opened to him, meeting the invasion of his tongue with her own fervor, pouring three weeks of fear and resentment into the contact.
Lucien groaned, the sound vibrating against her lips. He swept his arm around her waist, lifting her effortlessly, crushing her body against his. Her feet left the floor, her back hitting the wall beside the window with a dull thud, knocking a framed diagram of ley lines askew.
He bit her lower lip, hard enough to sting, then soothed it with a swipe of his tongue. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, gripping her hip, pressing her into the plaster as if he wanted to merge their skeletons.
The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Rory’s logic warned her this was a mistake. He was dangerous. He was selfish. He was halfway to being a monster. But his hands were warm now, searing through her shirt, and the darkness of his presence wrapped around her like a blanket she didn't want to cast off.
She broke the kiss, gasping for air, her forehead resting against his. Their breath mingled in the narrow space, ragged and harsh.
You’re still an arsehole, she whispered, her voice wrecked.
I know , Lucien replied, trailing kisses down the line of her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
He nipped at the skin there, causing her to arch her neck, a shiver chasing itself down her spine .
Does that mean I’m staying? he asked against her skin.
Rory tightened her grip on his jacket, pulling him back up until their eyes met again. The amber eye burned with triumph, the black eye with bottomless need.
If you leave me behind again, she said, her voice steady despite the rapid pounding of her heart, I will use that cane to stake you.
Lucien smirked, a wicked, jagged thing that showed too many teeth.
Understood.