AI The third deadbolt clacked back under Aurora’s thumb. The chain still held. She leaned in, eye pressed to the peephole, and the hallway swam into view—yellowed paint, a flickering bulb, and a man who looked like he belonged in a different century.
Platinum hair slicked back. Charcoal suit cut close to the body. An ivory-handled cane planted on the warped lino like a threat.
One eye caught the light, amber as a coin held to flame. The other drank it, black as a bruise.
Rory’s stomach tightened in a clean, vicious twist.
She left the chain on and opened the door a hand’s width.
“You’ve got some nerve.”
Lucien’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t a smile. He looked at the gap like he measured it.
“I remembered you liked your distance.”
“Funny. I remember you didn’t.”
The air from the stairwell carried damp and frying onions from the curry house below. Lucien’s scent cut through it anyway—sharp cologne, cold rain, and something metallic that didn’t belong.
His gaze flicked to her left wrist. The small crescent scar sat pale against her skin, caught between sleeve and thumb. His eyes stayed there a beat too long.
“You’re still counting exits,” his voice came out soft, French edges sanded down by London.
Rory’s fingers tightened on the door.
“And you’re still turning up where you’re not wanted.”
A scrape came from behind her. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, pushed his striped head between Rory’s ankles and stared at Lucien with flat judgement. The cat’s tail lashed once.
Lucien glanced down.
“Ah. Your guard.”
“He bites.”
“I respect him already.”
Rory didn’t move aside. The chain stayed. Her heart kept a hard tempo, the kind she got on a bicycle when a car clipped too close.
“You can’t be here.”
Lucien’s shoulders shifted, and the suit jacket pulled. The movement flashed a dark patch at his ribs where the fabric clung wrong.
Rory’s eyes snapped to it.
“Don’t.”
Lucien’s hand slid down the cane, knuckles pale.
“You’ll wake her,” he murmured.
“Eva’s not here.”
Lucien’s expression changed, a small adjustment in the eyes, like a lock clicking.
“Then it’s only you.”
Rory held his gaze through the peephole gap, through the chain, through everything she’d stacked between them since the last time.
“Say what you came to say. Then go.”
Lucien didn’t look past her shoulder, but his attention moved around the flat anyway, taking in the tight corridor lined with books, the paper-littered table barely visible from the doorway, the smell of old ink and takeaway.
“You kept her habits,” he noted. “The notes. The chaos.”
“She studies. Unlike you. You just collect secrets and bleed people for them.”
Lucien’s nostrils flared at that, a short inhale through his nose. It landed somewhere in him. Good.
“You kept your tongue,” he answered. “That, too.”
Rory’s laugh came out as a single harsh breath.
“You didn’t come for banter.”
Lucien’s fingers slid under the edge of his jacket. He moved with care, as though something inside him scraped. He drew out a small envelope, thick, sealed with black wax pressed by a signet ring. He held it up to the crack in the door.
“I came to give you this.”
Rory stared at the seal. Supernatural parlour tricks dressed up as stationery. Lucien loved theatre.
“Post exists.”
“It would have been opened.”
“By who?”
Lucien’s gaze lifted. That amber eye held warmth that didn’t belong to him, and the black one stayed empty.
“People who don’t knock.”
Rory swallowed. She didn’t reach for the envelope.
“I’m not in your world anymore.”
His mouth twitched.
“You never were. You just walked through it with your eyes open.”
Rory’s nails dug into the door edge.
“You left me in it.”
Lucien’s jaw flexed. The corridor light above him blinked once, and his face shifted between shadow and glare.
“I pulled you out.”
“You let go,” Rory snapped, and the words came out before she could smooth them down . “You turned around and let go.”
The envelope dipped. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the chain latch, then back to her face.
“Rory.”
Hearing it from him felt like a thumb pressed against a bruise. He didn’t use her name often. He used it like a key.
Rory didn’t answer.
Lucien tipped his head, listening to something she couldn’t hear.
“Someone followed me.”
Rory froze.
The stairwell stayed quiet, but the building creaked the way old places did, settling into itself. Ptolemy’s ears flattened. The cat slipped forward, belly close to the floor, and disappeared deeper into the flat without a sound.
Rory’s breath caught.
“You brought trouble to Eva’s door.”
Lucien’s gaze sharpened.
“I didn’t bring it. It came when you became important.”
“I’ve always been important to me.”
A sound drifted up the stairs—soft, like fabric sliding against a wall. Then a careful step on the landing below.
Rory’s skin prickled.
Lucien leaned in until his face sat inches from the crack. His voice dropped.
“Open the door.”
Rory’s pulse hammered under her tongue. The last time he’d told her what to do, she’d ended up in a basement with chalk circles on the floor and the stink of burnt rosemary in her hair. He’d held her wrist then too, thumb over the crescent scar, like he could rub it away.
She’d gone home shaking. He’d vanished. No call. No note.
Now he stood in Eva’s hallway, bleeding through his suit, asking again.
Rory’s hand slid to the chain.
“You don’t get to—”
Another step. Closer. Slow.
Lucien’s shoulders stiffened, and his grip tightened on the cane. The ivory handle turned a fraction.
Rory made her choice with her teeth clenched.
The chain slid free. The door opened wide.
Lucien stepped inside in one smooth movement. Rory caught a flash of the blade hidden in the cane as it shifted under his palm, a thin sliver of steel that lived in the ivory like a secret.
He cleared the threshold and turned, and Rory slammed the door shut. The deadbolts went in one after another with hard, angry snaps.
Lucien stood a few feet from her in the narrow corridor. Close enough for her to see the rain beaded on his eyelashes. Close enough to see the dark stain at his ribs spread beneath the suit.
Rory’s gaze dropped.
“You’re hurt.”
Lucien’s lips parted. For a beat he looked younger, like someone had tugged the strings that kept him composed.
“It’s nothing.”
Rory snorted and shoved past him.
“Sit.”
He followed, cane tapping once on the floorboards before he caught himself and lifted it. He moved like pain sat in his hip. The sight hit Rory with a surge of something hot and unwanted. She didn’t have time for softness.
The flat opened up into the cramped living room. Books crowded every surface—stacked on the floor in tottering towers, spread open on chairs like sleeping birds. Scrolls lay pinned under mugs and paperweights. Eva’s notes covered the wall above the desk in a web of string and scribbles.
Lucien’s eyes tracked the mess with the same focus he used on a room full of enemies.
“She’s been busy,” he muttered.
Rory grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it into the centre of the room, legs screeching against the floor.
Lucien lowered himself onto it, careful. When he settled, the suit jacket pulled again. The fabric around his ribs darkened.
Rory crossed to the kitchenette, flicked the kettle on without thinking, then stopped with her hand still on the switch.
“Why are you bleeding in my friend’s flat?” The words came out clipped. “Start there.”
Lucien’s gaze held her. That amber eye made people feel seen. Rory hated it. It dug under her skin and found the soft parts she kept guarded.
“I got cut.”
“No kidding.”
Lucien’s fingers pressed against his ribs. The gesture stayed controlled, but his breath hitched at the end.
Rory grabbed a tea towel from the counter and tossed it at his lap. It landed half on the cane, half on his thigh.
“Lift your jacket.”
Lucien looked down at the towel, then up at her, and something like amusement sparked .
“You always went straight to orders.”
Rory’s voice turned sharp.
“Lift it, or bleed on Eva’s chair and explain it to her yourself.”
Lucien’s hand slid to his jacket buttons. He worked them open with care. The black shirt beneath clung to his side, soaked through. He pulled the fabric away from his skin.
The cut ran along his ribs, a clean slice that looked wrong against him. Blood slicked the skin, dark and glossy.
Rory’s throat tightened. She stepped closer before she meant to, eyes narrowing as she assessed the angle.
“That’s a blade,” she muttered. “Not a fall.”
Lucien’s mouth tipped.
“Good eye.”
Rory pressed the towel to the wound, harder than necessary.
Lucien’s breath hissed through his teeth. His fingers shot out and caught her wrist.
Not tight. Not gentle. Exact.
The contact lit her nerve endings. His hand covered the scar on her left wrist, thumb brushing the crescent. Her skin remembered him. Her mind didn’t forgive him.
Rory yanked free.
“Don’t touch me.”
Lucien held his hand up, palm open, a mock surrender that didn’t reach his eyes.
“As you wish.”
Rory pressed the towel again. She felt his muscles tense beneath it.
“Who did this?”
Lucien’s gaze drifted past her shoulder to Eva’s wall of notes.
“Someone interested in what Eva’s been digging up.”
Rory’s pulse jumped.
“Eva’s research stays in this flat. She doesn’t show it.”
Lucien’s voice softened. It scraped against Rory’s anger in a way that made it slip.
“People watched you, Rory. Not Eva.”
Rory froze. The room tightened around her. She heard the kettle’s low hum, the distant traffic through the thin windows, the tiny scratch of Ptolemy’s claws somewhere behind the sofa.
“You followed me?” Her voice dropped. “After everything, you still kept eyes on me?”
Lucien’s face stayed still. His pupils widened a fraction.
“I kept you alive.”
Rory let out a short laugh that carried no humour.
“I didn’t ask for your protection.”
Lucien’s gaze sharpened.
“You didn’t ask when you walked into my office either.”
Rory felt heat rise up her neck. Memory flickered —Lucien behind a desk, hands steepled, suit crisp, eyes pinned on her like she stood naked. The deal he’d offered. The price he hadn’t named until later.
“You asked for help,” Lucien continued, voice even. “You wanted the man who hurt you gone from your life.”
Rory’s jaw clenched .
“Evan.”
Lucien nodded once.
“You wanted him to stop.”
Rory leaned in until she could see the fine line where Lucien’s black eye met the white, a seam of darkness that always looked unreal.
“I wanted peace,” she snapped. “You gave me violence dressed up in a favour.”
Lucien’s lips parted, then closed again. He glanced down at the towel soaked through with his blood.
“You got your peace.”
Rory’s hands shook. She pressed the towel harder, as if she could push the past back into his skin along with the blood.
“You disappeared.”
Lucien’s gaze rose.
“You told me to.”
Rory stared at him. The kettle clicked off with a dull clunk that sounded like a period at the end of a sentence. Rory hadn’t meant it back then. She’d thrown the words like a glass at a wall.
Get out. Don’t come back. Leave me alone.
She’d meant them for the panic in her chest as much as she’d meant them for him.
“You could’ve checked,” she muttered. “Once.”
Lucien’s mouth tightened.
“If I came back then, you would’ve followed me again. And you would’ve ended up dead, or worse.”
“Don’t decide that for me.”
Lucien leaned forward, and for the first time his composure cracked at the edges. The cane shifted against the chair leg. His voice turned rough.
“You think I didn’t want to?”
Rory’s breath snagged. The room felt smaller. The space between them shrank until it pressed against her ribs.
Ptolemy reappeared, slinking along the wall. The cat jumped onto the desk with a soft thud and sat, tail curled, eyes fixed on Lucien. Like a judge waiting for the next lie.
Rory’s voice came out quieter.
“Why now?”
Lucien held her gaze. His heterochromatic eyes made it hard to look away, like two different truths stared back.
“Because someone opened a door they shouldn’t have,” he replied. “And because you still had my number memorised.”
Rory scoffed, but her fingers tightened on the towel. She didn’t reach for her phone because he’d hit something tender and ugly.
“You could’ve called.”
Lucien’s glance dropped to her hands. Blood soaked the cloth and warmed her palms. He watched it like it fascinated him.
“I couldn’t risk a trace.”
Rory stepped back and tossed the ruined towel into the sink. Red smeared her skin. She grabbed a roll of kitchen paper and a bottle of antiseptic from Eva’s overstuffed shelf. She’d helped patch up enough stupid cuts in this flat to know where everything lived.
She ripped off sheets and soaked them. The sharp medicinal smell filled the kitchenette. Rory returned and shoved the wet paper against his ribs.
Lucien’s throat worked.
“Eva keeps supplies for you?” His words came out low.
“For me?” Rory’s laugh came out thin. “I’m not the one who shows up bleeding at doors.”
Lucien’s gaze stayed on her face, heavy.
“You used to open my doors.”
Rory’s hands paused. The paper trembled between them.
She remembered Lucien’s place—polished wood, expensive silence , the way the city noise died outside his windows. She remembered him at his table, pouring wine with steady hands, acting like blood and monsters belonged in the same room as crystal glasses.
She remembered how his gaze had softened the first time she’d laughed at one of his jokes. Like he’d been surprised his own mouth could make that sound happen.
Rory’s voice came out clipped.
“That was before I learned better.”
Lucien’s hand rose again, slow. He didn’t grab her this time. He brushed a knuckle against the back of her wrist, near the scar, a question without words.
Rory’s throat tightened. She didn’t move away. She didn’t lean in.
Ptolemy let out a single displeased meow from the desk, loud in the cramped room.
Lucien’s eyes flicked to the cat.
“He doesn’t like me.”
“He’s got instincts.”
Lucien’s mouth pulled.
“So do you.”
Rory’s chest rose and fell. She pressed the antiseptic paper to his wound, and his fingers stayed on her wrist, light but present, like he marked her pulse .
“Talk,” Rory demanded, and the word came out ragged at the edge . “Tell me what’s in that envelope.”
Lucien reached into his jacket with his free hand, movements careful. He drew out the wax-sealed envelope again and held it up between them.
Rory didn’t take it.
Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver.
“It’s a list,” he replied. “Names. Places. Things Eva’s been circling without knowing she drew blood in the water.”
Rory’s stomach turned.
“And you brought it here because—”
Lucien leaned forward until his knee almost touched hers. The cane rested against the chair, forgotten. His voice dropped.
“Because they’ll come for it,” he answered. “And because I couldn’t put it anywhere else without losing it.”
Rory’s hands hovered over his wound. His fingers still rested against her wrist, warm through the smear of antiseptic and blood.
Outside, a door in the building clicked shut, distant. Footsteps moved along the stairwell, slow, measured , not hurried like a neighbour.
Lucien’s gaze shifted past Rory’s shoulder.
Rory’s mouth went dry.
“You weren’t lying,” she whispered.
Lucien’s grip tightened by a hair, not enough to hurt, enough to anchor.
“No.”
Rory’s eyes stayed on his. The air between them carried all the words they’d never spent. Attraction sat there too, stubborn as a bruise you kept pressing to check if it still hurt.
Rory reached for the envelope at last, fingers brushing his. The wax seal felt cold against her skin.
“Then you’d better start telling me everything,” her voice came out low, “because if you dragged danger into Eva’s flat, I’ll throw you back into the hallway and lock every bolt with your fingers still on the wrong side.”