AI The neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying ember, casting jagged shadows across the damp pavement. Aurora Carter—Rory, to those who knew her—stepped inside, her boots crunching on the broken glass of a discarded bottle. The air smelled of stale ale and something older, something like old paper and damp wool . She hadn’t come here for the usual: the usual was the kitchen of Golden Empress, the usual was the hum of delivery orders and the quiet exhaustion of a night shift. Tonight, the weight of the past pressed against her ribs like a second skin.
Silas Blackwood was already there, his back to the door, a glass of something amber in his hand. He didn’t look up when she entered, but the way his fingers tightened around the stem told her he’d been watching. The bar was half-empty, the usual crowd of Londoners who came for the quiet, the secrets, the way the walls seemed to hold breath. She moved toward the bar stool by the window, where the light was brighter, but Silas didn’t turn. Not yet.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low, the kind of voice that made you lean in.
Aurora exhaled, slow and sharp. “I had a delivery.”
“A delivery,” he repeated, as if the word itself was a question. His gaze flicked to her wrist—the crescent scar from the childhood accident, the one she’d never told anyone about. “You look different.”
She didn’t answer. The scar was still there, but the rest of her felt like it had been carved out . The Rory she’d been was gone , swallowed by the weight of leaving Cardiff, of the life she’d built in London, of the man who’d called her his. Evan. The name still tasted like ash.
Silas didn’t wait for her to speak. “You’re not the same person who walked in here last time we met.”
Aurora’s fingers twitched toward the scar, but she stopped them. “I’m not.”
He set his glass down with a clink. “You’re not the girl who thought she could outrun everything.”
The words hit like a punch. She’d thought she could. She’d thought she could outrun the way Evan’s hands had left their marks, the way the voices in her head had whispered that she wasn’t enough. But London had been a cage, too. A cage of her own making.
Silas leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur. “You ever think about going back?”
The question hung between them, thick and suffocating. “I don’t know what that would mean.”
“You’d be home in Cardiff,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Your father would still be there. Your mother—”
“She’s not there anymore,” Rory said, sharp as a blade. “She left years ago.”
Silas didn’t flinch. “She still loves you.”
“She doesn’t know me anymore,” Rory snapped. “She doesn’t know the woman I’ve become.”
Silas studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes unreadable . Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar toward her. “This was in your coat when you left.”
Aurora’s breath caught. It was a letter—handwritten, the kind of letter that had been folded and slipped into a pocket without a second thought . She unfolded it carefully, her fingers trembling.
*Rory,*
*I know you’re gone , but I still hear your voice in the wind. I still see you in the way the light hits the river at dusk. You were always too clever for your own good, but I loved you anyway. Don’t let them take you from me.*
*Your mother.*
She looked up at Silas, her eyes burning. “That’s from my mother.”
Silas nodded. “She wrote it years ago. Sent it to you in Cardiff. You never opened it.”
Rory’s throat tightened. “I didn’t want to.”
Silas exhaled, slow and weary. “You were a kid. She was scared.”
“She was scared of me,” Rory said, voice breaking . “Of what I might become.”
Silas reached across the bar and took her hand. His grip was firm, steady. “You’re not what she feared.”
She pulled away, her fingers cold against his. “I don’t know anymore.”
The bar door creaked open behind them, the sound of footsteps heavy with the weight of someone who knew they weren’t welcome. Silas didn’t look away. “You ever think about what you’re running from?”
Rory’s gaze flicked to the door, then back to him. “I’m running from nothing.”
Silas smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the problem.”
The door swung shut behind them, leaving the quiet again, but this time it felt heavier, like the air had been sucked out of the room. Rory stood, her breath coming faster. “I should go.”
Silas didn’t let her go. “You’re not leaving.”
She turned to him, her blue eyes sharp. “I am.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “You’re not.”
The words hung between them, unspoken . Then, from the shadows behind the bar, a voice cut through the silence .
“You’re late.”
Aurora’s blood turned to ice. The voice belonged to Eva—her childhood friend, the one who’d helped her escape Evan. She’d been in London for months, but she’d never actually met Silas. Not properly. Not like this.
Silas didn’t move. “Eva.”
Eva stepped into the light, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, her eyes sharp with something like recognition . “You look like hell.”
Silas smirked. “And you look like you’ve been running from something.”
Eva’s smile was brittle. “I’ve been running from everything.”
Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. Eva had changed—she’d always been different, but now it was worse. The girl she’d known was gone , swallowed by the same darkness that had taken Rory’s mother. And Silas knew.
“You two know each other?” Rory asked, voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another envelope. He slid it across the bar to Eva. “This was in your coat when you left.”
Eva’s fingers hovered over the letter, then she unfolded it. Her face paled. “Aurora.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. “What is it?”
Eva’s voice was raw. “She’s gone .”
Silas didn’t say anything. He just watched, his expression unreadable .
Eva looked up at him, her eyes burning. “You knew.”
Silas didn’t deny it. “She was in trouble.”
Rory’s hands clenched into fists . “Who?”
Silas’s gaze flicked to her, then away. “Someone who shouldn’t have been looking.”
Eva’s voice was a rasp. “And now?”
Silas exhaled, slow and heavy. “Now, we find out who.”
The bar door swung open again, the sound of footsteps heavy and urgent. Rory’s blood turned to ice.
“You’re late,” someone said.
Silas didn’t turn around. “We’re not leaving.”
The footsteps stopped. Then, a voice—familiar, but not Eva’s—asked, “Who’s with you?”
Silas didn’t answer. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Then, from the shadows, a figure stepped forward.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the voice said.
Silas turned slowly , his expression unreadable . “You’re late.”
The figure stepped closer, their voice low and dangerous. “You know what happens to people who don’t follow the rules.”
Silas’s smile was cold. “We’ll see.”
The air between them crackled with tension , thick and suffocating. Rory’s heart pounded in her chest , her fingers digging into the bar. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But she was trapped , just like she always had been.
Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it with a match, the flame flickering in the dim light. “You ever think about what you’re running from?”
Rory’s breath hitched. “I don’t know anymore.”
Silas exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the air. “That’s the problem.”
The figure stepped closer, their voice a low growl. “You’re not leaving.”
Silas didn’t look away. “We’re not.”
The air between them was thick with something darker than fear. Something that had been waiting for them, just waiting.
And then, the door swung open again, the sound of footsteps heavy and urgent. Rory’s blood turned to ice.
“You’re late,” someone said.
Silas didn’t turn around. “We’re not leaving.”
The footsteps stopped. Then, from the shadows, a voice—familiar , but not Eva’s—asked, “Who’s with you?”
Silas’s gaze flicked to Rory. “This one’s mine.”
The figure stepped closer, their voice low and dangerous. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Silas’s smile was cold. “We’re not.”
The tension in the room was unbearable. Rory’s fingers dug into the bar, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But she was trapped , just like she always had been.
Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. He lit it with a match, the flame flickering in the dim light. “You ever think about what you’re running from?”
Rory’s chest tightened. “I don’t know anymore.”
Silas exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the air. “That’s the problem.”
The figure stepped closer, their voice a low growl. “You’re not leaving.”
Silas didn’t look away. “We’re not.”
And then, the door swung open again, the sound of footsteps heavy and urgent.
“You’re late,” someone said.
Silas turned slowly , his expression unreadable . “We’re not leaving.”
The footsteps stopped. The figure stepped into the light, their face a mask of fury. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Silas’s voice was quiet, deadly. “We are.”
The air between them was a storm, thick with the weight of secrets and lies. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears, her fingers twitching toward the scar on her wrist. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But she was trapped , just like she always had been.
Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it with a match, the flame flickering in the dim light. “You ever think about what you’re running from?”
Rory’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. “I don’t know anymore.”
Silas exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the air. “That’s the problem.”
And then, the figure’s voice cut through the tension , low and dangerous. “You’re not leaving.”
Silas didn’t look away. “We’re not.”
The bar door swung open again, the footsteps heavy and urgent, the weight of something unseen pressing down on them all.
Silas’s gaze locked onto Rory’s. “You’re not running anymore.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to scream. But the words caught in her throat, stuck like stone.
Silas exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the air. “That’s the problem.”
And then, the figure stepped forward, their voice a low growl. “You’re not leaving.”
Silas didn’t move. “We’re not.”
The air between them was a storm, and Rory knew, with a certainty that had nothing to do with fear, that this was the end of something she’d never been able to name.
Silas lit another cigarette, the flame dancing in the shadows. “You ever think about what you’re running from?”
Rory’s fingers dug into the bar, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “I don’t know anymore.”
Silas exhaled smoke, watching it drift into the air like a ghost. “That’s the problem.”
The figure stepped closer, their voice a low, menacing whisper . “You’re not leaving.”
Silas’s gaze never wavered . “We’re not.”
The bar door swung open, the footsteps heavy and urgent, the weight of something unseen pressing down on them all.
Silas turned slowly , his expression unreadable . “We’re not leaving.”
And then, the figure stepped into the light, their face a mask of fury.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Silas’s voice was quiet, deadly. “We are.”
The air between them was a storm, thick with secrets and lies. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears, her fingers digging into the scar on her wrist.
Silas’s cigarette glowed in the dim light. “You ever think about what you’re running from?”
Rory’s breath came in ragged bursts. “I don’t know anymore.”
Silas exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the air like a promise. “That’s the problem.”
And then the footsteps retreated, the door closing with a finality that left the room silent.
Silas reached for Rory’s hand, his grip firm and sure. “We’re not leaving.”
She looked at him, her eyes burning with something she couldn’t name. “What happens now?”
Silas’s smile was slow, knowing. “Now, we find out.”