AI Rain lashed against the single pane window of the flat above Silas’ bar, drowning out the distant wail of London sirens. Aurora Carter scrubbed the lingering scent of five-spice and grease from her hands, the water running scalding hot over her skin. Her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror looked jagged, tired. A double shift at the Golden Empress had left her legs throbbing and her patience thin.
Three distinct, rhythmic knocks echoed from the front door.
Rory froze. She turned the tap off. Silence rushed back in, heavy and suspicious. Silas wouldn't knock; he’d shout from downstairs. Eva would text first. The police pounded. This was precise. Deliberate.
She dried her hands on a rough towel and moved into the small living area. Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the deadbolt. If this was trouble, she had a fire escape and a very heavy cast-iron skillet. She threw the bolt and yanked the door open, prepared to snarl at a lost drunk from the pub below.
The snarl died in her throat.
Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe. The hallway landing light flickered , casting erratic shadows over his platinum hair, now plastered to his skull by the downpour. His tailored charcoal suit, usually sharp enough to cut glass, hung heavy and sodden. Water dripped from the hem of his jacket, pooling on Rory’s welcome mat.
"You." Rory gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles whitening. "You have five seconds to give me a reason not to slam this in your face."
Lucien’s lips, usually curled in a smirk of arrogant amusement, formed a thin, bloodless line. He shifted his weight, and the ivory-handled cane in his right hand rapped sharply against the floorboards.
"Hospitality seems to have fallen out of fashion in this borough." His voice rasped, lacking its usual velvet smoothness. "I require... a sanctuary ."
"Try a church. I hear they’re big on forgiveness. I’m not."
She shoved the door. It swung fast, destined for the latch, but the ferrule of his cane shot out, jamming between the wood and the frame. The ivory handle groaned under the pressure.
Lucien didn't push back. He slid down the doorframe, his legs folding uselessly beneath him.
Rory’s irritation fractured into alarm. She abandoned the door and lunged forward, catching him by the lapels before he hit the floor. He was dead weight, heavy and radiating a feverish heat that soaked instantly through her thin t-shirt.
"Dammit, Lucien." She hauled him across the threshold, kicking the door shut with her heel.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against her chest. She dragged him toward the worn leather sofa, his expensive Italian leather shoes scuffing trails on her rug. With a heave, she deposited him onto the cushions. He slumped back, his head lolling against the backrest.
Under the harsh light of the living room, the damage became clear. The charcoal fabric of his suit jacket was stained a darker, slicker black on the left side, just above the hip. The metallic tang of copper and sulfur filled the cramped room—blood and brimstone.
Rory stood over him, hands on her hips, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "You’re bleeding on my couch."
Lucien cracked one eye open. The amber iris burned with an unnatural luminescence, while the black eye remained a void, swallowing the light. "An keen observation, chérie. Your investigative skills remain unparalleled."
"Don't call me that." She turned on her heel and marched to the kitchenette, throwing open the cabinet under the sink. She grabbed the first Aid kit—a plastic box stuffed with more gauze and antiseptic than a normal delivery driver should own—and a bottle of vodka.
She returned, dropping the kit on the coffee table with a clatter. "Jacket. Off."
Lucien fumbled with the buttons, his fingers clumsy and shaking. He managed one before his hand dropped, trembling, to his side. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, his jaw clenched tight enough to snap teeth.
Rory slapped his hand away. "Stop. You’re useless."
She knelt between his spread knees, the proximity stripping the air from her lungs. She worked the buttons of the sodden jacket swiftly, her fingers brushing against the damp silk of his shirt. He smelled of rain, expensive cologne, and the terrifying scent of raw magic.
She peeled the jacket down his arms. He hissed when the movement pulled at his side. She tossed the ruined garment onto the floor and went to work on the shirt. The silk was ruined , fused to his skin by drying blood.
"This is going to hurt," she said, uncapping the vodka.
"I have endured worse."
"I haven't." She poured the clear liquid over the fabric where it stuck to the wound.
Lucien’s back arched off the sofa. A strangled cry escaped his throat, his hand shooting out to grip her shoulder. His fingers dug in, bruising force behind them. The heterochromatic eyes blew wide, fixing on the ceiling.
Rory didn't stop. She peeled the fabric away, revealing a jagged puncture wound just above his hip bone. The flesh around it was black and veined with grey, as if the weapon that struck him had been dipped in rot.
"Silver?" she asked, grabbing a sterile pad.
"Blessed iron," he gritted out, his grip on her shoulder slowly relaxing, though he didn't let go. "Courtesy of the Order of St. George. They have become... aggressive."
"You shouldn't be here, Lucien. If the Order is hunting you, you've painted a target on my back." She pressed the gauze pad hard against the wound.
He flinched, his eyes snapping down to meet hers. "I had nowhere else. The safe houses are burned. My contacts are silent. You are the only one who is not on their payroll."
"I'm not on your payroll either."
"No." His thumb swept unconsciously against her collarbone. "You simply possess a stubborn moral compass that I find inconveniently reliable."
Rory focused on the blood seeping through the white gauze. It gave her something to look at besides the expanse of his chest, the pale scars that mapped his history, and the way the water dripped from his chin. Six months. It had been six months since he walked out of that warehouse in Docklands, leaving her with a dead body and a police siren wailing in the distance. He’d used her to flush out a rogue sorcerer, keeping her in the dark until the trap sprung.
"I should let you bleed out," she said. Her voice lacked the conviction she wanted. "For Docklands."
"For Docklands," he agreed softly . "And for Paris. And for the incident with the ghoul."
"Especially the ghoul." She taped the gauze down, her movements efficient . The bleeding was slowing , his demonic physiology already knitting the worst of it, fighting off the holy poisoning. She sat back on her heels, wiping her sticky hands on a rag.
Lucien slumped, the tension draining from his frame now that the immediate crisis was managed. He looked wrecked. The platinum hair, usually slicked back in severe perfection, hung in wet strands across his forehead. He looked younger, less like the terrifying Fixer of London and more like a man who’d run until he couldn't take another step.
"Why didn't you call?" Rory asked, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
"I lost my phone."
"You have other ways. You could have sent a message."
"I didn't want you involved."
Rory laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "You’re in my flat, dripping blood on my floor. I’m involved."
"I intended to wait until I was stable, then leave before you returned."
"Liar." She leaned forward, invading his space. "You knew I’d be here. You knew I’d help. You gambled on my stupidity."
Lucien’s hand moved from her shoulder to cup her jaw. His skin was scorching hot. The thumb brushed her cheekbone, a tender gesture that felt like a slap after the silence between them. "I gambled on your mercy, Aurora. I had no chips left to play."
The use of her full name froze her. He only used it when he was desperate or lying.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, but she didn't pull away.
"You have a scar," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw down to her wrist, where her sleeve had ridden up. He stopped at the crescent-shaped mark on her left wrist. "I remember this."
"From a bike accident. Not from your world."
"Everything is my world, eventually." He leaned his head back against the cushions again, his eyelids drooping. The adrenaline was crashing . "I am sorry."
Rory stared at him. Lucien Moreau did not apologize. He bargained. He negotiated. He explained. He never apologized.
"You're hallucinating," she said, standing up abruptly. Her knees popped. "I’m going to make tea. Sugary tea. Treat the shock."
She turned toward the kitchen, needing distance. The air around him felt charged , thick with thestatic of unsaid words and the magnetic pull that had caused all this trouble in the first place.
"Rory."
She stopped, her back to him.
"I came because I knew you would be angry," he said, his voice stronger now . "And anger requires you to be alive. Indifference... indifference is where I lose you."
She gripped the edge of the counter, the Formica biting into her palms. "You lost me in Docklands, Lucien."
"I know." The leather creaked as he shifted. "I intend to earn you back."
She filled the kettle, the water rushing loud into the metal basin. "You can’t just show up, bleed on me, and expect to pick up the pieces."
"I expect nothing."
She slammed the kettle onto the base and clicked the switch. The silence stretched, filled only by the rising hum of the boiling water and the steady patter of rain against the glass.
Rory looked over her shoulder. Lucien was watching her, his heterochromatic gaze unblinking. He looked like a fallen angel dragged through the gutter—beautiful, dangerous, and entirely at her mercy.
"Drink your tea," she said, her voice steadying . "Then you explain why the Order of St. George is trying to kill you. And if I don't like the answer, I throw you out the window."
Lucien’s lips quirked, the ghost of his usual smirk returning. "Second floor. I would likely survive."
"I'll aim for the dumpster."
She turned back to the mugs, reaching for the sugar. Her hands were shaking . She wasn’t sure if it was fear of the Order, the adrenaline of the blood, or the terrifying realization that despite the betrayal, despite the months of silence , the moment he touched her, she had wanted to lean in.
She fixed the tea, dark and sweet. When she turned back, he was still watching her, hunger and pain warring in his mismatched eyes.
She walked back to the couch and held the mug out. He took it, his fingers brushing hers, lingering a second too long. The heat of his skin jumped to hers.
"Start talking, Moreau," she said, sinking into the armchair opposite him. "And don't skip the details."