AI The three deadbolts clicked into place with a heavy thud, each sound serving as a physical barrier between her and the shadows of Brick Lane. She stood by the door for a long moment, listening to the low rumble of the curry house’s kitchen vibrators against the floorboards. Silence was safer. Predictability was safer.
A sharp buzz shattered the stillness. Not the delivery chime, which didn't sound like that. It was harsh, insistent. Chari.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Eva was out. She couldn't be. Unless she’d sent him. Eva never sent him. She wouldn't.
Rory’s hand trembled as she reached for the handle. She looked down at her wrist, checking the crescent-shaped scar beneath her sleeve, seeking the familiar anchor of old pain. It didn't help. Her fingers curled over the metal, her knuckles white.
She unlatched the first bolt. Then the second.
She slid the chain back, then the third. The door opened just a crack.
Lucien Moreau filled the gap.
He smelled of rain on hot asphalt and ozone, a scent that had once smelled like safety and now smelled like a headache that wouldn't go away. He stood there in a charcoal suit that looked more like a second skin than fabric, his platinum-blond hair slicked back severely. The light from the hallway caught his face, highlighting the strange, fractured mosaic of his eyes—one amber, the other absolute black. They held her in place, pinning her with a predatory intensity that stripped the breath from her lungs.
“You shouldn't be here,” she whispered.
Lucien didn't blink. The hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane flexed. “I do not ask for permission, Rory.”
“I told you to leave London. I told you that the noise would bother you.”
He stepped forward, the heavy door not budging an inch against her resistance. His collar was impeccable, the white pin sharp enough to draw blood, but his eyes darkened, the amber flickering like dying embers. “I received a message. You called for help. In code. In the Times crossword puzzle.”
“That was Eva. She was—”
“Don’t lie to me.” He didn't raise his voice . His tone was low, vibrating in the air between them. “Tell me to leave. Say the word, and I will walk back into the rain and never cross your threshold again.”
His jaw worked, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. He wasn't moving, but the space around him seemed to shrink, pressing in on her. The downstairs neighbor’s radio started playing a Bollywood melody, muffled and distant.
“Go away, Luc.” The name left her mouth like a stone dropping into a well.
The corner of his mouth tilted. It wasn't a smile; it was a concession. “I cannot.”
He shouldn't have been there. The Griffiths family was still watching, the echoes of Evan’s reach stretching across the city. Having a Half-Demon—born of the Avaros realm and possessing the negotiation skills of a seasoned diplomat—trailing after her like a guilty conscience was a death sentence, or at least, a headache that warranted a bottle of wine she couldn't afford.
Rory sighed, the tension draining out of her shoulders until she felt boneless. She stepped back into the gloom of the hall and waved a hand, motioning him inside.
He moved with a silent efficiency that unnerved her. He entered, the scent of him—expensive sandalwood and ancient magic—swirled around her, replacing the stagnant air of the flat. He set his cane against the wall with a deliberate, hollow *tap *.
“Ptolemy,” she warned softly .
The tabby cat on the armrest of the armchair leaped off, sprinting under the kitchenette, tail puffed to double its normal size.
Lucien looked around the tiny space. The bookshelves were piled high with texts on demonology and arcane history, the floor a quilt of fabrics and loose papers. It was a chaotic nest, completely opposite his own sterility. He brushed a stray bookmark off a stack of leather-bound journals, his movement graceful, erasing the dust.
“You live with your head in the clouds,” he said, his voice losing the icy sharpness as he spoke . He turned, leaning his hip against the wall, crossing one long leg over the other. The charcoal suit fabric stretched.
“I prefer to know what is going on.”
“You prefer to know what you are ignoring.” He tilted his head, the black eye staring into her blue one. “Why call me? The ex is gone. You ran.”
“Evan isn't the problem. It’s what he left behind.”
“Fear.” It wasn't a question.
“Stupidity,” she corrected, crossing her arms over her chest. She ignored the way her pulse picked up. “I wasn't thinking clearly.”
“And here I thought you were the cool one. The one with the plan.”
“Plans fall apart.” She looked away, toward the window where the streetlights of Brick Lane painted flickering rectangles on the floor. “Sometimes you have to improvise.”
“Impovise by summoning a demon,” he mused. The amusement was gone , replaced by a glint of the predator . “You know the laws, Rory. You work in that restaurant. You know the difference between a spirit and a demon.”
“I summoned nothing.”
“Then who is haunting your dreams?”
The air grew cold. The flat’s radiator clanked, the sudden bang echoing like a gunshot. Rory remembered the nightmares—the feeling of fingers gripping her ankle, the suffocating weight pressing her into the mattress. It had started the night she fled.
Lucien pushed off the wall. He moved too fast for a man his age. He stopped right in front of her, invading her personal space with the force of a physical blow. He was so tall he cast a shadow over her, blocking out the light from the hallway.
“You are wearing the scent of sulfur,” he said, his breath ghosting over her forehead . “And fear.”
She stared up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel the hum of his energy, the latent heat of his half-blood. It was magnetic . It was terrifying.
“I’m tired, Lucien.”
“So am I.” He lowered his hand, the fingers long and pale, hovering inches from her wrist. The glint of the cane blade caught the light, then his hand pulled back, clenching into a fist at his side. “But I cannot leave you to drown.”
“I don't need saving.” She tried to sound defiant, to channel the sharp, intelligent woman she was when she wasn't shaking in her boots.
He laughed, a short, dry sound. “You are drowning. The water is up to your neck, and you are trying to wave your arms and pretend it’s a swim.”
He turned and walked toward the stack of books, picking up a leather-bound tome. He didn't look at her as he flipped it open, but his posture was relaxed , the stiffness from the hallway gone, replaced by an easy familiarity that made her ache in a deep, painful way.
“I have information,” he said, not looking up . “About the real estate in Cardiff. About the firms that are cleaning up after your father.” He snapped the book shut. “About the man who followed you to the airport.”
Rory froze.
She turned slowly , forced to look at him. He was facing her now, leaning against the edge of a desk piled with notes on local ley lines. His heterochromatic eyes bored into hers, stripping away her defenses one by one.
“I don't need you to play detective for me.”
“I am not playing.” He pushed off the desk, the leather of his dress shoes squeaking softly on the bare floorboards. He closed the distance again, until he was close enough that she could feel the rough fabric of his sleeve. He reached out, a deliberate, slow movement, and gently tugged the sleeve of her gray sweater up.
Her left wrist was exposed. The crescent-shaped scar was there, pale and jagged, a souvenir from a childhood kitchen accident.
His thumb brushed the scar. It wasn't a touch; it was an exploration. The skin along her wrist flushed hot, a reaction she couldn't control.
“You are fragile,” he murmured.
“And you are loud.”
“Silence is safer.”
“Not for me.” She caught his hand, stopping him before he could retreat. Her grip was weak, but it was there. His skin was warm, impossibly so for a human, the residual heat of a demon creeping through his pores.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his amber eye dilated, fixing on her hand clutching his. “You are angry at me.”
“I’m angry because you knew.”
“Knew what?” The question was soft, masking the steel underneath.
“Knew I was scared. Knew I was vulnerable. And you stood there in that suit, looking like a man who could solve any problem, while I was losing my mind.”
“I could have fixed it.” His voice dropped an octave, low and rough. “If you had let me.”
“I can’t do this.” She shook her head, stepping back, putting a foot of distance between them. “I can’t have you in my life. Every time I look at you, I remember how much I hurt. And I remember how easy it was for you to walk away.”
Lucien straightened. He looked at her with a profound weariness that dimmed the sharp edge of his predatory glare. He touched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a second.
“I did not walk away. You made me.”
“That’s the point.” She turned away, busying herself with closing the front door, locking the deadbolts again with trembling fingers. She rested her forehead against the wood for a second before turning back to face him. “Why are you really here, Lucien? Is this about Eva? Does she need something?”
“No.”
“She needs dinner.” Rory walked toward the kitchenette, needing a barrier. She started organizing the unwashed dishes from the morning, even though they were dry. “She’s having a rough time with her thesis.”
“I know.”
“You tracked us down from Marseille.” The reality of it settled on her, cold and heavy. “That’s not just information brokering. That’s obsession.”
Lucien moved then, silently as before. He stood behind her, close enough that she could smell the rain on him again, sharp and clean. He reached over her shoulder and took a plate from her hand, setting it on the draining board without breaking eye contact with the wall.
“You are my tether,” he said quietly. “To Earth. To myself.”
She spun around, the water glass in her hand slipping, but he caught it before it hit the counter.
“The ex is dead,” she said, her voice cracking . “Whatever holds you here is gone.”
“No.” He set the glass down. He took a step closer, invading the space she’d tried to create, closing the circle. “You are here.”
The amber eye darkened, swirling with a hunger that wasn't just sexual, but ancient and deep. He reached up, a hand cupping the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the dark hair at her nape. His thumb grazed the sensitive skin just below her ear.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
It wasn't a request. It was a command wrapped in velvet .
Rory’s breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered shut. She knew she should push him away. She knew this was the worst idea of her life. But his hand was warm, grounding, and the terror in her chest was slowly being suffocated by the pull of him. She leaned into his touch, a traitorous movement.
“Lucien...”
“Do not say my name unless you mean it.” He lowered his head, his lips ghosting over hers, teasing, promising.
She kissed him then, a rush of desperation that tasted of rain and expensive cologne. It was a collision of bruised lips and trembling hands. His other hand moved from her waist to her face, tilting it back, deepening the kiss with a roughness that bordered on violence, yet she felt entirely safe.
The world outside Brick Lane—the sirens, the rain, the dying marriage she’d fled—fell away. There was only the heat of him, the taste of him, and the undeniable, terrifying truth that wherever she went, he would follow.